• 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY    OP 
CALIFORNIA 


THE    MANIAC: 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS, 


B  T 


GEORGE  SHEPARD>BURLEIGH 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.  W.  MOORE,  193  CHESNUT  STREET. 

1849. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress  in  the  rear  1849,  bj 

GEORGE  S.  BURLEIGH, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  ef 
Pennsylvania. 


teiFr 


MERRIHKW  &  THOMPSON,  Printers, 
No.  7  Carter'a  Allej  . 


TO 

iijc   6  rowing    ijfiirt  of   ij  it  m  rut  it  i), 

LONG   TAUGHT    BY 

SUFFERING     AND     LOSS, 

THIS    VOLUME 

IS     FRATERNALLY     INSCRIBED     BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


M8652S8 


CONTENTS. 

The  Maniac,      .       V       .'       .     »•  J11*1***  wn*t  g 

The  Little  Botanist,          ."       .*       .     <   ,T      .         .  67 
Man  and  the  Years,           .*                          .         .         .83 

Autumn  Hymn,          .......  91 

Worship, 97 

The  Pond  Lily,         / 102 

Dora,         .  '       .'       .  '       .  '       .         .         .  '  V'.'1-^  .  105 

The  Lesson,      ....     ***?*%  ^mf^.l  <  113 

Mother  Marpary,       .         .' 115 

Spirit  Love, 119 

Spirit  Marriage,         .         .         .         .         .         .         .121 

The  Laborer's  Thoughts,           .'....  123 

From  the  Bereaved  to  Nature,          •*  126 
The  Autumnal  Equinox,             .         .         .         .         .131 

The  Garden,      .         .*                v       .*        .•     <  .         .  143 

The  Fire-Steed,'        .*        .'        .'        /    '    .SiJ'.         .  172 

The  Little  Workers,          .*        .*        /        «   <'    .         .  175 

Duality,     .        .        . '  .  173 

Hymns  for  a  Mother : 

1.  The  Dead  Boy-Babe, 183 

2.  The  Babe's  Welcome  in  Heaven,           .        .  188 

3.  The  First  Born, 192 

4.  The  First  Smile, 195 


VI.  CONTENTS. 

Tableaux  : 

1.  Pure  Love, 199 

2.  Sensual  Love, 199 

3.  Moral  Heroism, 200 

4.  Martial  Heroism, 201 

The  Ground  Swell, 202 

Water, 205 

The  Storm- Waltz, 208 

Antiques  : 

1.  Tears, :  216 

2.  Askings, 217 

3.  The  Truly  Blest, 219 

Ellen  Byrne, 221 

Trust, 226 

The  Wren, 228 

A  Symbol, ,232 

The  Home-Gone,        .......  233 

Unmeant  Service,      .......  236 

Ice  Crystals, 237 

The  Wanderer, 238 

Primal  Music, 239 


POEMS. 


THE    MANIAC. 

THERE  are  two  graves,  and  they  are  far  apart, 
But  I  have  scattered  flowers  on  both  to-day: 
Children  were  weeping  over  one,  a  fair 
Young  girl's,  whom  they  had  dearly  loved :  and  one 
Was  a  poor  Maniac's,  newly  filled,  and  smoothed 
With  soft  green  turf,  where  he  might  calmly  sleep, 
After  his  horrid  life-dream. 

Once  long  since 

I  saw  him  wandering  lone,  as  he  was  wont, 
With  head  uncovered,  and  his  straggling  locks 
Blazing  into  the  air.     Deep  trenches  ploughed 
By  wild  thought,  tracked  his  cheek,  and  in  each  line 
Sat  an  insatiate  demon  of  despair. 
His  dark  dilated  eyes  glared  wildly  out 
On  vacancy,  as  if  their  orbs  had  caught 


10  THE     MANIAC. 

A  sudden  glimpse  of  the  Eternal  Horrors 

That  crowd  the  infinite  Dark,  and  could  not  turn 

From  that  dread  vision.     Fearfully  his  clenched 

And  bony  hand  smote  down  the  viewless  forms, 

That  gave  the  air  he  breathed  a  hue  of  hell; 

While  ever  and  anon  he  spurned  the  earth, 

And  muttered  "Dead!  dead!  dead  !"  and  then,  oft-times, 

His  maniac  laugh  rang  dismally  from  out 

The  hollow  chambers  of  his  desolate  heart, 

The  knell  of  past  affections,  joys  and  hopes. 

He  shunned  the  dwellings  and  the  paths  of  men, 

And  trod  the  loneliest  woods,  what  time  the  owl 

With  boding  cry,  like  wasted  manhood's  sob, 

Made  the  night-echoes  tremulous  with  fear : 

Chiefly  he  sought  the  low  swamp's  trackless  waste, 

Where  the  white  fog  hung  heaviest,  and  the  shade 

Of  the  thick  cedar,  and  the  solemn  pine, 

Shed  grateful  horrors  o'er  his  starless  Soul. 

The  night-birds  flapped  their  pinions  by  his  cheek, 

And  the  hoarse  frog  croaked  out  his  clamorous   note 

As  he  went  by,  and  the  shrill  {  katydids ' 

Shrieked  their  sharp  contest  in  his  heedless  ears : 

But  when  he  pealed  his  wild  and  maniac  laugh, 

Till  the  deep  bosom  of  the  old  woods  shook 

All  else  grew  voiceless,  and,  with  quicker  beat, 

Dark  vans  to  eddies  smote  the  sleeping  fog : 

Even  the  fire-flies  smothered  up  their  lamps, 


THE     MAN  I  A  C  .  11 

That,  like  the  flash  of  multitudinous  swords 
In  some  far  war-field,  gave  incessant  gleams ; 
While  the  dim  line  of  congregated  hills 
Sent  back  their  answer.     The  benighted  swain 
Caught  quick,  and  held  in  long  suspense,  his  breath, 
As  sudden  memories  of  old  legends  came, 
Taught  on  his  nurse's  knee,  of  the  Black  Fox — 
Scotland's  dread  devil — and  his  marvellous  deeds. 
His  eye  would  glance  with  quick  and  anxious  look, 
At  the  live  shadows  of  the  moving  boughs 
Beside  him,  as,  with  longer  strides,  he  sped 
To  the  far  star-beam  of  his  cottage  light. 

0  who,  that  marked  the  wretched  madman  then, 
Lonely  in  heart  and  haunts,  had  seen  in  his, 
The  manly  features  of  young  Donaldane, 
Whose  heart  was  once  affection's  quiet  nest; 
His  soul  the  mother  of  high  thoughts  and  pure, 
Fit  for  an  Angel's  love,  save  that  a  pride 
Too  tender  for  a  breast  whose  every  pore 
Was  instinct  with  quick  life,  within  him  dwelt! 

He  was  a  child  of    Passion  and  of  Thought; 
Thought  plumed  to  soar  in  heaven,  not  armed  to  delve; 
To  win  by  flight  the  goal,  which  others  seek 
By  weary  plodding ;  Passion  warm  with  Love 
That  knows  no  hiding,  earnest,  open,  deep. 
Though  he  read  not  the  spirit-life  of  things 


12  THE     MANIAC. 

In  their  eternal  meaning — their  God's- word, — 

Nature  was  something  more  to  him  than  what 

The  visible  pictured  to  the  visual  orb : 

Brooks  were  not  simple  brooks,  but  liquid  thoughts. 

Uttered  in  ripples  on  the  pebbled  shore, 

Which  filled  his  soul  with  their  soft  melody; 

And  sisterly  sweet  flowers,  with  honey  lips, 

Were  dear  companions,  whispering  blessed  things, 

Fraught  with  the  kind  humanities  of  love : 

The  blue  lake  seen  by  starlight,  with  its  soft 

Daguerreotype  of  heaven,  the  moss-clad  rocks, 

With  time-wrought  records  of  the  buried  Past ; 

Valley  and  hill,  green  trees  and  waving  fields, 

Were  beings  which  had  life ;   and  each  by  turns, 

In  its  own  language,  prophesied  to  him : 

And  oft,  to  cheat  the  sad  hour  of  its  grief, 

He  chanted  their  mute  oracles  in  song. 

The  love  he  gave  dumb  natures  was  not  lost; 

For,  though  they  made  his  soul  no  answering  vow, 

Yet  they  in  him  begot  new  kindnesses, 

And  nourished  old  affections;    lent  his  heart 

Sublime  ideals  of  a  purer  life, 

And  a  more  high  communion.    Things  which  men 

Pass  thoughtless,  or  behold  with  icy  heart, 

He  met  with  such  kind  heed  that,  day  by  day, 

He  grew  into  a  very  brotherhood 

With  them,  and  they  at  length,  were  as  a  part 


THE     MANIAC.  13 

Of  his  own  being.    With  how  much  higher  flight 
Man's  soaring  soul  o'ertops  insentient  things, 
With  so  much  nobler  love  and  fellowship 
Would  he  have  wedded  his  warm  heart  to  man. 
But  iron  CUSTOM  bound  its  withering  chain 
Upon  his  bosom,  and  drove  back  the  pulse 
Of  its  deep,  earnest  life  :    CONVENTION  laid 
Her  rigid  finger  on  the  burning  lips 
Of  his  great  soul,  to  dam  the  upgushing  thought ; 
And  all  his  young  affections  run  to  waste, 
Too  freely  lavished  on  ideal  things. 

Early  repulsed  with  cold  neglect,  or  stung 

With  colder  pity,  he  became  acquaint 

With  bitterness,  and  armed  himself  with  Pride, 

That  bosom-traitor  to  the  wounded  heart, 

To  guard  his  bleeding  hope ;   and,  in  such  mood, 

Even  kindly  Nature  lost  her  power  to  heal. 

Her  soothings,  like  a  mother's  fond  caress 

Of  an  o'erfretful  child,  would  oft  provoke 

A  deeper  restlessness,  and  plant  new  pangs 

Into  the  growing  sorrow  of  his  soul. 

When  from  a  human  shrine  the  priceless  pearl 

Of  his  rich  love  was  blindly  cast  aside, 

As  nothing  worth,  he  would  go  forth  to  lay 

The  slighted  offering  at  Nature's  feet, 

And  turn  to  weep  ;  for  even  in  her  courts 


14  THE     MAN  I  AC  . 

Where  breathed  his  holiest  worship,  the  same   heart 

From  which  he  fled  ruled  there;    for,  as  he  passed, 

The  very  birds,  whose  untaught  melody 

He  loved  so  well,  would  shun  him  and  grow  mute, 

And  the  fleet  rabbit  bound  in  fear  away. 

It  grieved  him  sorely  that  perfidious  man 

Had  taught  them  terror,  who  were  born  for  joy. 

With  yearnings  vain,  and  soft  and  tender  words, 

With  gifts  hung  on  the  rocks  and  forest  boughs. 

He  strove  to  banish  from  their  timid  breasts 

The  fear,  which  barred  them  from  his  willing  love  : 

But  they  had  learned  to  shun  the  insidious  foe. 

Whose  cruel  snares  and  cunningly  laid  baits 

Beset  them,  hedging  every  woodland  path. 

And  whose  fell  engines,  with  perfidious  aim, 

Showered    death  and    wounds  among  their   startled 

tribes ; 

Too  well  they  knew  the  upright  form  of  man 
Swathed  a  Soul  fallen  from  its  first  estate, 
For  when,  ere  taught  to  shun  him,  they  had  brought 
The  humble  offerings  of  their  little  hearts, 
With  the  dumb  utterance  of  a  wordless  love, 
In  song  or  gambol, — bondage,  or  the  knife 
Of  sateless  gluttony,  repaid  their  boon : 
So  oft  betrayed,  perchance,  a  wiser  heart 
Than  bird's  or  beast's  might  know  not  whom  to  trust. 


THE     MANIAC.  15 

The  mournful  thoughts  by  such  repulses  wak'd 

Grew  dark,  and  deepened  into  faithlessness 

In  man's  heart,  and  the  great  Heart  of  the  world. 

He  saw  unlove,  distrust,  and  naked  hate, 

And  the  long  visage  of  hypocrisy ; 

Saw  man  a  traitor  to  his  fellow  man, 

A  tyrant  there,  and  here  a  cringing  slave  : 

Heard  the  loud  shout  of  myriad-handed  Wrong, 

Drowning  the  death-cry  of  his  bleeding  prey; 

And  starving  millions  cursing  the  great  heavens 

That  rained  not  bread  into  their  shrivelled  maws; 

While  the  fat  locustry  of  Priest  and  Lord 

Rolled  by,  in  pride  of  fratricidal  pomp. 

A  thousand  noble  hearts  had  swelled  and  snapt, 

Finding  no  answer  to  their  cry  for  love: 

A  thousand  famished  hearts  gnawed  on  themselves, 

Hearts,  like  his  own,  too  weak  to  stand  erect 

In  calm  self-trusting,  and  too  proud  to  beg. 

Over  all  Nature  universal  war 

Made  ravage,  and  the  might  of  Terror  reigned  ; 

Bird  preyed  on  bird,  brute  brute,  and  man  on  all. 

To  him  the  eternal  Asking  came,  as  come 

It  must  to  every  earnest  soul,    "Why  thus 

Runs  Anarch  Misrule  its  perpetual  round, 

If  Order  fills  the  throne ;  why  Discord  howl, 

If  the  Great  Law  be   jarless  Harmony  ?  " 

Alas!  in  him  that  dread  eternal  WHY 


16  THEMANIAC. 

Unanswered  rang,  and  he  became  its  prey. 

For  every  lost  beam  of  his  fading  trust, 

The  whole  world  seemed  more  false  and  meaningless. 

By  turns  he  fought  and  fled  the  growing  doubt, 

But  like  a  fiend  it  haunted  all  his  steps, 

Blotting  the  glory  from  the  universe, 

Till  o'er  his  soul  the  native  joy  of  things 

Could  pour  no  light  through  Evil's  full  eclipse. 

He  heard  the  shrill-blown  clarion  of  Reform 

Summon  stout  hearts  to  battle  on  the  wrong ; 

And  a  half-hope  sprang  gladdening  his  faint  Soul, 

As  rank  on  rank  the  sacramental  host 

Of  God's  Elect,  poured  their  linked  files  upon 

The  armies  of  the  Alien.     Forth  with  them 

He  marched,  to  windings  of   their  Spartan  flute, 

Filled  with  the  visions  of  heroic  deeds, 

Though  not  of  hope,  yet  born  of  pure  desire. 

If  Virtue  yet  survive  the  wrecks  of  Time, 

If   Truth  and  Love  be  no  grand  mockery, 

Nor  the  great  world  a  bubbling  vat  of  Hell, 

Haply  some  glimmer  of  its  better  soul 

Will  greet  him  there,  and  there  even  yet  may  be 

Some  heart  of   all  those  Chosen,  who  might  fill 

The  infinite  thirst  and  hunger  of  his  own. 

Small  need  he  saw,  where  first  he  scanned  the  field 

Of  his  last  hope,  for  alien  armies  there ; 


THE     MANIAC.  17 

That  host  itself  went  surging  in  the  whirls 

Of  civil  conflict,  with  more  mad  turmoil 

Than  shook  the  heavens,  when  wildest  rout  disranked 

The  innumerous  foe.     Not  his  the  clear-eyed  soul 

To  pierce  that  loud  contending  whirlpool  down 

To  the  calm  center  of  a  swerveless  aim, — 

The  potent  God's-will,  blending  in  one  tide 

Of  boundless  good,  its  torn  and  warring  waves ;  — 

The  storm  was  there,  but  where  was  the  blue  sky? 

The  grim  Doubt  grew  into  a  very  fiend, 

And  laughing,  leapt  upon  his  cheated  heart, 

Coiled  its  bat-wings  arid  clung  there,  black  as  hell, 

And  heavy  as  a  nightmare.    What  could  he  ? 

Poor  Donaldane,  a  brother  brotherless, 

With  an  Ideal  too  divine  for  earth ; 

Nigh  stripped  of  faith  in  all  he  would  have  loved ! 

Yet  there  was  One  amid  that  dinning  moil, 
Whose  deep,  calm  eye,  with  glances  of  clear  hope 
And  love-sad  pity,  smote  the  shrivelled  fiend 
Who  clutched  his  heart  so  fiercely.    In  her  face 
Was  quiet  beauty,  and  a  soul  of  Good  j 
Her  voice  was  music,  and  a  holy  light 
Of  faithful  thought  shone  in  her  words  sincere, — 
Light,  driving  back  the  strong  Doubt  from  his  breast, 


18  THE     MANIAC. 

If  yet  it  might  not  open  into  bloom 

The  trodden  rose-buds  of  a  perfect  Trust. 

Lillian  (fit  name  for  one  whose  smallest  deeds 

Made  her  life  musical,)  henceforth  became 

The  one  sweet  tone,  in  all  that  stormy  war, 

To  the  sick  soul  of  Donaldane;  in  him 

She  stirred  new  pulses  of  new  joy,  unfelt 

Till  then,  and,  with  a  touch  that  she  knew  not, 

Struck  from  the  silence  of  his  jangled  heart 

Divinest  melody,  in  the  silver  chimes 

Of  generous  thoughts,  and  the  sweet  will,  that  born 

Of  pure  affection,  showers  its  kindnesses 

On  all;  for  that  soft  tone  of  world-wide  love, 

And  the  rich  music  of  her  gentle  voice, 

Laden  with  earnest  goodness,  went  with  him — 

The  joy  melodious  of  his  silent  way; 

Out  of  his  soul  she  might  not  lightly  pass, 

For  she  had  come — as  comes  the  welcome  beam 

Of  morning  to  the  dreamer,  when  wild  shapes 

Have  marred  some  olden  Beauty — with  a  light 

Rekindling  the  fair  forms  of  primal  love, 

Ideals  perished  in  the  long  ago. 

Amid  the  tumult  of  the  turbulent  crowd, 

When  the  whole  heart  recoiled  with  aching  grief 

At  what  he  saw,  her  spirit  brought  again 

Those  buried  visions  of  diviner  things, 


THE      MANIAC.  19 

And  holier  Being,  that  had  peopled  oft 
His  boyhood's  solitude,  ere  yet  he  knew 
That  there  were  smiles  of  guilt  and  treachery. 

Her  voice  was  as  the  song  of  summer  birds 
In  the  storm's  roaring,  her  serene  glance  lit 
The  smothered  torch  of  his  white  love  again, 
Not  now  to  waste  with  buried  fire  his  heart, 
But  a  pure  flame  above  the  hallowed  shrine 
Of  this,  his  new  Divinity.     A  glance, 
A  word,  brought  back  with  one  electric  flash 
Into  the  Man,  the  buried  glory-beams 
That  lit  the  Boy. 

To  him  whose  secret  soul 
Hath  never  dreamed  of  those  diviner  forms 
Which  people  the  bright  realms  of  Thought,  or  sighed 
For  the  pure  incarnation  of  his  dream, 
Love  hath  no  language  to  reveal  her  deep 
Mysterious  presence,  or  the  workings  of 
Her  prevalent  spirit;  but  to  one  like  him  — 
Whose  heart  from  childhood  bore  an  aimless  fire, 
While  on  the  clear  deeps  of  his  gentle  soul, 
In  hours  of  calm,  were  mirrored  the  serene 
And  lovely  forms,  that  hover  over  us, 
Informing  us  with  beauty  —  there  but  needs 
One  glance,  when  eye  to  eye  lends  fire,  to  bear 
Her  holiest  revelation. 

He  beheld, 


20  THEMANIAC. 

In  her  soft  eye,  and  fair  heart-speaking  face. 

Some  gleams  of  the  enshrined  beatitudes, 

Whose  light  once  made  his  path  a  galaxy : 

And  now,  for  that  he  feared  his  own  scarred  heart, 

Even  as  one  of  those  Impalpable 

She  moved  before  him,  and  became  to  him 

A  holy  vision,  a  sweet,  waking  dream, 

Which,  if  he  did  but  utter  one  poor  word, 

Would  fade  away  for  ever.     Sanctity 

Serene  encircled  her,  through  whose  light  wreaths 

He  would  not  pierce,  with  earthly  speech  like  his ; 

And  though  his  heart  was  full  of  whitest  love, 

He  gave  his  tongue  no  counsel,  but  did  choose 

Rather  to  worship  in  dumb  reverence, 

Than  mar  the  shrine  by  rudely  grasping  it. 

What  if  she  were  not  all  that  he  believed; 

What  if  the  mist-like  halo  of  divine 

And  placid  spirit-beauty,  "were  but  cast 

From  his  own  deep  unconscious  Soul1?    it  fell 

On  a  pure  mirror,  dimmed  by  no  foul  breath, 

Or  he  had  never  seen  it  ]   was  it  fit 

That  he  should  pluck  the  sweet  delusion  off, 

If  it  were  thus,  since  in  that  fair  reflex 

His  whole  heart  opened  flower-like,  day  by  day? 

Nay,  if  the  beam  were  his,  'twas  only  thus 

It  could  be  Life  and  Beauty  to  his  soul. 


THE      MANIAC.  21 

But  she  was  holy,  and  the  atmosphere 

Was  tinged  with  heavenly  radiance  from  within, 

Making  surrounding  earth-clouds  beautiful. 

The  commonest  things  put  on  a  hue  of  heaven, 

In  her  divine  heart's  presence,  and  the  rude 

Brown  earth  bloomed  sweetly,  under  the  warm  light 

Of  her  pure  sun-like  spirit.     Round  her  path 

Wood,  rock,  and  stream,  reflected  loveliness, 

As  when  the  morning  kisses  the  green  earth. 

Even  the  brown  mill,  wherein  her  busy  hand 

Waged  war  on-  Chaos,  Hunger,  and  grim  Want, 

(For  she  had  been  no  pampered  child  of  wealth, 

But  struck  with  toil  the  iron  chords  of  life,) 

Did  rather  seem  a  temple  with  meet  songs 

And  orisons,  than  the  hard  prison  it  was ; 

For  a  true  heart  had  sent  a  living  pulse 

Through  its  steel  nerves;  a  pure  and  holy  Soul 

Wrought  worship  in  its  blind  Activities. 

Donald  forgot  his  darkness  in  her  light, 

His  Winter  smiled,  and  blossomed,  in  her  Spring; 

So  deep  a  melody  her  silent  heart 

Infused  into  his  spirit  and  his  life, 

All  things  grew  musical;   the  jangling  notes 

Of  outward  Discord,  could  not  reach  his  ear, 

It  was  so  filled  with  inborn  harmony. 

He  sought  not  if  the  world  was  dark  beyond 
3 


22  THEMANIAC. 

His  orb  of  light,  or  if  his  own  must  wane; 
Whether  the  weltering  chaos  girdled  in 
A  hand-breadth  round  him,  or  a  universe; 
In  the  loud  Maelstrom  of  the  boiling  world 
His  ear  had  caught  the  softest  under-tone 
Of  Love  and  Life,  that  held  him  so  entranced, 
All  the  mad  whirlpool  thundered  on  unheard. 

Even  as  the  unconscious  wind,  whose  breathing  wakes 

Eolian  murmurs  from  its  trembling  harp, 

She  moved,  the  soul  of  melody  in  him; 

And  never  knew  the  wealth  of  life  she  gave. 

He  told  her  not;  she  could  not  need  his  love, 

And  he  was  blest  too  deeply  to  profane, 

With  beggar' d  words,  his  great  and  silent  awe. 

Yet  he  inscribed  it  on  the  hueless  air 

Of  the  lone  wood,  by  leaf,  and  vine,  and  flower, 

Even  with  the  eye  that  read  the  tale  in  these, 

For  all  were  eloquent  of  silent  Love: 

And  he  revealed  it  to  the  midnight  stars, 

The  rude  old  Constellations  melted  back, 

As  ere  primeval  wonders  found  in  them 

Lion  and  Centaur,  and  the  myriad  shapes 

Of  antique  Poesy — and  to  him  henceforth, 

In  thousand-fold  bright  figures,  they  did  spell 

LIFE,  LOVE,  and  the  sweet  name  of  LILLIAN: 


THE      MANIAC.  23 

And  on  the  green  earth,  travel-sore  his  feet 
Left  records  of  the  love  he  would  not  speak: 
For  long  lone  hours  he  tracked  the  flying  sun, 
Towards  its  home  and  hers,  that  he  might  be 
In  her  calm  presence  even  for  a  day, 
To  feed  the  hunger  of  his  silent  thought. 

Alas !  he  had  not  learned  that  deeper  love 
Which  is  an  omnipresence,  for  it  was 
His  heart 's  first  lesson ;    and  how  far  his  glance 
Might  have  pierced  into  it,  had  not  the  page 
Been  torn  too  sudden  from  his  Book  of   Life, 
That  shivered  heart  tells  but  a  mournful  guess ! 

One  day  young  Lillian  wandered  to  the  hills, 
That  girt  with  green  the  valley  of  her  home ; 
Her  pure  soul  full  of   beauty  and  of  prayer, 
There;  from  the  din  of  busy  life  retired, 
To  pierce  through  Being's  garment  of  unrest 
To  the  calm  beating  of  its  Sabbath  Heart. 
Sunset  and  Autumn  filled  the  sky  and  earth 
With  rival  splendors,  as  if  all  the  Day's 
And  the  Year's  gorgeousness,  were  harvested 
And  garnered  in  the  west.     The  dying  leaves 
Wore  the  rich  blushes  of  their  infant  Spring, 
Like  childhood's  memories  in  the  old  man's  soul. 
All  glories  mingled  in  the  exodus 


24?  THE      MANIAC. 

Of   Day  and  Autumn,  splendors  from  the  deep 

Shot  through  the  trembling  curtain,  as  they  passed 

Into  the  mighty  Death-realm.    Lillian 

Sat  on  a  moss-bed  soft  and  delicate, 

A  very  Eden  for  the  fairy  folk, 

And  thence  looked  forth  on  meadow,  wood,  and  sky, 

In  their  last  hues  of  green,  red,  blue,  and  grey. 

With  intricate  blendings  of   soft  light  and  shade, 

An  endless  maze  of  glories,  many-dyed, 

In  wild  entanglement, — as  if  the  hand 

Of  Beauty 's  Angel  had  unrolled  her  woof, 

And  flung  the  coiled  mesh  down  the  sky  to  earth, 

In  agony  of  infinite  satelessness. 

She  saw,  but  this  not  only;   for  as  one 

Looks  on  his  window  and  sees  far  beyond, 

Her  eye  beheld  that  visible,  yet  pierced 

To  the  full  depths  of  splendor,  of  whose  waves 

That  was  a  sun-lit  spray-wreath,  dashing  up 

Round  the  gray  rocks  of  Time.     Eternity 

Lay  under  all,  these,  and  the  earth,  the  heavens. 

And  the  great  Universe.     Yon  very  sky, — 

Where  now  the  Angels  sow,  with  unseen  hands 

O'er  all  the  bare  champaign  of  gathered  Day, 

Star-germs  whose  blooms  will  be  a  new  Day's-light, — 

Shall  shed  its  worlds,  like  flying  leaves,  to  feed 

With  their  decay  another  Universe. 

All  things  are  transient  save  the  Eternal  ONE. 


THE      MA  MAC.  25 

Her  clear  eye  glimpsing  down  the  Infinite 

Saw  there,  with  faint  half-vision,  as  in  dream. 

Glories,  and  Mysteries,  and  Beatitudes, 

Flitting  auroral ;    Splendors  for  which  earth 

Has  not  a  name  in  all  her  myriad  tongues, 

For  they  were  of  the  Life  and  Soul  of  Things; 

Bora  of  the  inmost  Verity  of  All; 

Seen  only  by  the  holy.     Marvelled  she 

How  thin  a  veil  had  hid  their  lovely  forms, 

Wholly  transparent  to  the  annointed  eye, 

A  crystal  pall  before  the  pure  of  heart. 

Yet  pierced  by  no  glance  of   the  sensual. 

That  veil  is  woven  in  the  loom  of  Life, 

And  every  man  fills  up  the  delicate  warp 

Between  himself  and  those  bright  Verities. 

With  woof  of  his  own  Being,  gross  or  clear. 

Close  by  the  heart  of  the  Serene  and  Pure 

Their  warm  hearts  beat,  and  lend  it  holy  strength; 

But  to  the  breast  thick  bound  in  earthliness. 

No  spirit-pulse-beat  sends  its  lifeful  thrill. 

0  then,  saw  Lillian  whence  and  why  had  come 
Those  vague  ineffable  yearnings  of   the  soul 
As  for  some  old  "remembered  home,'5  when  stirred 
By  low-voiced  melodies  of  heart  or  tongue. 
Heroic  Love-Deeds,  Beauty,  or  the  hush 

Of  speechless  Adoration.     Such  things  shook 
3* 


26  THE     MANIAC. 

The  earth-dust  from  her  -spirit,  and  half  revealed 
Those  pure  Eternities,  till  oft  her  own, 
Unknowing  then,  had  felt  the  wave-like  swell 
Of  their  white  bosoms,  as  they  bore  her  up 
On  those  soft  billows  resting,  into  some 
Diviner  sense    of  Beauty  and  of  -Life. 
And  oft-times  through  that  melting  veil  she  saw 
Their  glorious  forms  in  full  dim  outline,  stand 
Maddeningly  beautiful,  like  the  airy  limbs 
Of  Wood-Nymph,  when  the  dallying  wind's  caress 
Wreathes  round  them  her  own  skirts  of  gossamer. 
Down-looking  thus,  through  earth's  clear  crystalline- 
Clear  only  to  the  Trustful— Lillian 
Fed  full  her  Soul  on  holy  Mysteries, 
And  bowed  her  low  in  worship  of  the  Deep. 
So  sat  she,  spirit-like,  above  the  world, 
Till  the  bright  gold  grew  crimson  in  the  west, 
And  the  wood-glories  dim'd.     Then  came  a  sense 
Of  body's  weakness,  blending  with  the  strength 
Of   that  Soul-gladness,  and  one  whispered  prayer 
Hung  on  her  moving  lip,    aO  Soul  of  souls. 
Father  of  Life  and  Death,  if   it  may  be 
That  I  have  done  my  little  here  on  earth, 
Let  me  glide  hence  into  the  deeps  I  see, 
And  be  a  Soul  forever!  "     For  in  sooth 
She  had  grown  weary  in  the  faithful  strife, 
Wrestling  with  Error,  and  grim-visaged  Want. 


THE     MANIAC.  27 

Slowly  descending  from  the  fading  cloud, 

A  Being,  beautiful  beyond  all  thought, 

Came  o'er  the  wood ;  a  star  was  on  her  brow, 

And  in  her  hand  a  coronal  of  flowers ; 

Majestic  as  the  heavens  her  port,  her  glance 

Soft  as  the  moonbeam's  pearl,  thrice  crystalized  ; 

She  was  so  pure,  and  beautiful,  she  seemed 

The  incarnation  of  a  Seraph's  love, 

And  an  Arch- Angel' s  glory;    one  fair  hand 

Waved  gracefully  to  the  Watcher,  one  in  air 

Held  the  bright  crown,  as  thrice  her  musical  voice 

Entranced  the  earth,  "Come  Lillian,  sister  come! 

Come  when  the  leaves  fall,  we  are  waiting  thee." 

She  said,  and  passed  away,  as  passed  the  hues 

From  the  rich  veil  of  sunset.     Lillian  pry'd 

Into  the  fading  west  till  all  was  dark  j 

And  as  the  vision  melted  from  the  sky, 

Bright  eyes  and  floating  tresses,  and  the  curls 

Round  many  a  fair  face,  half-concealed  and  dim, 

And  scarce  distinguished  from  the  clouds,  she  saw 

For  a  brief  space  j   as  if  an  Angel  host 

Swept  out  beyond  the  opening  gates  of  heaven, 

Wheeled,  and  were  lost  again.     Then  came  a  gush 

Of  most  transcendent  melody,  0  how  sweet ! 

Mad'ning  her  soul  with  extasy  of  bliss. 

That  sound,  the  faintest  mortal  ever  heard, 
Died  not  upon  her  ear ;   those  airy  shapes, 


28  THEMANIAC. 

The  dimmest  mortal  ever  saw,  went  not ; 
But  they  were  with  her  alway,  heard  and  seen, 
Though  busy  crowds  went  jostling  in  her  path, 
And  the  dull  iron  heart-beat  of  the  Mill — 
Brown  fiend  of  Toil — still  vexed  the  ear  of  Day 
With  horrid  monotone.     Unheard,  unseen 
They  moved,  for  now  her  spirit  dwelt  apart 
Among  the  Angels. 

A  few  days,  and  then 

The  halls  of  Labor  heard  her  step  no  more. 
On  the  white  pillow  rested  her  white  cheek, 
And  her  pale  hand  did  mock  the  snowy  sheet, 
No  more  to  wrestle  with  the  powers  of  111. 
Day  after  day  with  intense  joy  she  watched 
The  dull  brown  mark  of  dissolution,  creep 
Over  the  gorgeous  woodlands;  with  like  swift 
And  sure  advance,    Disease  clipped,  thread  by  thread, 
The  ties  which  bound  her  Spirit  to  its  clay, 
That,  when  the  blast  should  drive  the  first  grey  shower 
Of  withered  leaves,  her  life  might  pass  with  it, 
As  hue  by  hue  the  Autumn  glories  dimmed 
And  perished,  gleam  on  gleam  the  bright  Death-wrorkl 
Unfolded  to  her  Soul,  unspeakable 
And  full  of  heaven,  a  universe  of  Thought. 
0  tell  me  not  that  wild  Delirium  wrought 
Those  glorious  forms,  majestical,  which  filled 


THE     MANIAC.  29 

That  world  of  splendor  and  of  mystery; 

Or  poured  from  urns  of  living  pearl  and  gold, 

O'erhung  with  wreaths  of  deathless  Amaranth, 

Those  pure  translucent  waters,  dancing  down 

O'er  smoothest  pebbles,  and  round  flowering  banks 

Of  such  ineffable  beauty,  that  the  seer 

Could  only  weep  in  dumb  calm  extasy : 

Say  not  that  discord  of  the  brain  could  wake 

Those  tones,  which  made  the  air  one  breathing  Soul 

Of  overwhelming  melody  to  her, 

With  songs  of  birds  and  spirit- voices  blent ; 

Could  paint  those  Angel  eyes,  whose  glances  deep, 

Through  loops  in  woven  myrtle  bowers  shot  forth. 

Revealed  a  whole  Eternity  of  Love. 

O  say  it  not,  fond  watchers  by  her  couch; 

For  then  were  madness  the  sole  Beautiful, 

All  else  a  heaviness  of  eye  and  heart. 

Poor  Lillian!   strove  she  with  half-uttered  words, 

On  tremulous  white  lips,  to  articulate 

The  Great  Unspeakable;   shook  her  slender  frame, 

As  shakes  the  cloud  with  thunder,  at  the  flash 

Of  that  all-glorious  Apocalypse. 

Ah!   poor  dumb  Lillian!   her  broken  speech 

Was  born  of  earth ;  her  vision,  of  the  Heavens  ! 

And  she  did  weep  in  bitterness  of  soul 

To  see  the  loved  turn  from  her,  with  a  look 


30  THE     MANIAC  . 

Of  pitying  distrust,  by  which  she  knew 

They  deemed  her  mad.    0  utter  agony! 

Will  they  not  see ;  is  there  no  spirit  there 

To  join  that  shivered  mirror,  and  unite 

Her  broken  image  of  the  great  Unknown? 

Ah  none  j  and  that  poor  heart  went  hushed  and  dumb 

With  infinite  splendor,  crowned  with  infinite  grief. 

Peace  to  thee,  Lillian,  now  thy  soul  hath  rest, 

In  the  great  Silence  of  Eternity ! 

No  peace  to  Donaldane,  though  far  away 

From  where  kind  hands  had  veiled  the  broken  shrine 

Of  his  heart's  idol,  where  no  cruel  winds 

Had  blown  the  tale  of  ruin,  how  the  Ark 

Of  his  Love's  worship,  earthward  sunk,  despoiled 

Of  its  Shekinah:   yet  a  twilight  gloom 

Hung  over  him,  as  from  the  shadowy  wing 

Of  Death,  stretched  broad  above,  it  had  come  down. 

There  went  the  murmur  of  a  solemn  dirge 

Through  his  unconscious  soul,  by  night  and  day, 

Blent  with  the  soft  sweet  name  of  Lillian. 

Something  was  written  in  the  silent  stars, 

The  summer  flowers,  the  green  earth,  and  the  brooks, 

That  tinged  his  hours  with  quiet  mournfulness. 

All  tones  that  trembled  in  the  hushed  air,  seemed 

The  low  faint  prelude  to  a  requiem  j 

But  not  a  thought  received  the  whispered  hint, 

Or  dreamed  the  hovering  sorrow  was  for  him. 


THE     MANI AC  .  31 

But  the  unborn  fulfillment  could  not  wait 

Till  its  dim  signs  were  read  aright  j  it  came, 

A  sudden  gloom  launched  forth,  as  if  at  once 

Lightning  were  changed  to  blackness,  and  shot  down 

Across  his  path.     His  hope,  the  gasping  year, 

Peace,  Love,  and  Lillian,  died  in  one  short  breath, 

Even  with  the  word  which  told  him  of  his  grief. 

And  a  new  year  came  in  with  that  new  wo, 

Its  only  boon  for  wretched  Donaldane. 

He  was  not  born  to  conquer  in  defeat, 

Nor  trained  to  triumph  in  his  great  despair. 

Though  he  had  dwelt  among  the  beautiful 

And  glorious  things  of  Earth,  lived  in  the  life 

Of  bird  and  flower,  of  grasses  and  green  leaves; 

And  bowed  to  grandeur  with  a  wordless  awe  j 

Yet  he  had  never  pierced  the  rind  of  things 

After  their  deepest  mystery,  to  the  core 

And  central  secret,  where  mutation  lies 

On  the  rock-basis  of  the  Immutable. 

They  passed  him  by,  a  pageant  of  bright  forms, 

Gay  maskers  full  of  momentary  life, 

Pushed  from  the  stage  by  each  succeeding  troop ; 

Their  mission  ended  with  the  forms  they  bore. 

From  their  fair  visors  looked  on  him  no  eye 

Lit  at  the  soul  of  the  Eternal  Seer: 

They  went  and  were  no  more,  and  he  must  find 

Some  new-born  fairness  where  to  feed  his  soul. 


32  THEMANIAC. 

The  infinite  under-Life,  that  bubbles  up 

Into  those  wells  of  Being,  tree  and  man, 

Star,  and  the  worlds,  he  had  not  dived  to  that ; 

So  that  his  soul  had  now  no  resting  place. 

Lillian  had  gone  into  the  utter  Dark, 

She  who  was  all  the  incarnate  perfectness 

Of  his  most  pure  Ideal  ;    and  to  seek 

Another  shrine  for  his  dethroned  and  stript 

Divinity,  for  this  he  had  no  heart. 

Where,  'mid  the  thousands  whom  he  trusted  not, 

For  the  repulses  of  the  few,  could  he, 

If  yet  he  dared  to  seek,  have  found  her  peer1? 

What  if  there  glided  past  him  many  souls 

Almost  as  holy  and  divine  as  hers, 

Nay  all  as  holy  and  divine  as  hers; 

They  were  but  specters  glimmering  through  the  Dark, 

Vexing  the  midnight  of  his  buried  Trust. 

Alas!   what  boots  it  now  to  walk  with  men, 

When  men  are  gibbering  demons  that  do  grin 

With  fell  delight  upon  his  agonies  ! — 

For  so  he  deemed  the  careless  smiles  of  them 

He  met; — and  wherefore  should  he  not  escape 

Such  cold  and  heartless  mockery  of  wo? 

Did  they  not  see  that  he  was  desolate, 

A  scathed  and  sapless  trunk,  fire-scorched  and  black 

With  lightning-paths,  and  yet  to  leer  and  mow 


THE      MANIAC.  33 

Upon  him!    0!  forlorn,  poor  heart, 

Such  visions  mark  the  darkness  of   despair; 

Such  wild  notes  ring  from  shattered  lyres  alone. 

The  world  itself   expired  when  Lillian  died, 

And  there  were  left  but  death,  and  deadly  things, 

And  many  legions   of  unquiet  ghosts, 

Troubling  the  lampless  charnel;    so  he  went 

A  hopeless  wanderer,  to  the  gloomy  woods, 

To  be  alone  with  his  great  solitude. 

There  he  aroused  old  echoes  from  their  sleep, 

Calling  the  elements,  and  all  deep  powers, 

To  render  back  the  spirit  of  his  Love. 

'•0!    I  am  a  wretched  man, 
Poor  of  heart  and  very  sore; 

I  have  lost  my  Lillian, 
I  can  lose  no  more. 

Heavens!    have  ye  heard  of  her? 
Wanders  she  there, 
Where  your  bright  armies  are  ? 

Render  some  word  of  her! 

•/:  Pity  me,  a  lonely  man  • 

Ye  are  many.  Stars  of  night, 
Then  give  back  my  Lillian 

With  her  golden  light. 
4 


34  THEMANIAC. 

I  have  sore  need  of  her  j 
Stars  she  was  fair 
As  your  loveliest  are; 

Took  ye  no  heed  of  her? 

"Darkness!    thou  primeval  ban, 
Older  than  the  solid  globe, 

Hast  thou  hid  my  Lillian 
In  thy  gloomy  robe  ? 

Waves  of  thy  river  once 
Poured  o'er  her  soul, 
I  '11  rush  where  they  roll 

For  her  deliverance  I 

"Morning!    on  the  mountain  top. 

Envious  of  her  lovelier  blush, 
Hast  thou  drunk  her  being  up, 

With  its  sunny  gush  ? 
Pent  in  alembics,  I'll 

All  thy  rays  burn, 

Till  her  spirit  return 
From,  its  condemned  exile. 

C{  Colorless  and  breathing  Air, — 
Liquid  marble,  sky-embrac'd — 

Is  my  Lillian  floating  there 
In  thy  desert  waste  ? 

Roaming  all  lands  over, 
Where  thy  streams  flow, 


THE      MANIAC.  35 

Night  and  day  will  I  go, 
But  for  one  glance  of  her. 

"  Hungry,  all-devouring  Sea  ! 

Rumbling  in  thy  coral  caves, 
Tell!  0  tell  me  where  is  she 

Whom  my  spirit  craves? 
Is't  her  control  hushes 

Now,  thy  great  deep? 

Ah !    no  more  will  ye  sleep, 
When  there  my  soul  rushes ! 

"  Deathless,  lifeless,  void  Inane  ! 

Utter  hollow  Nothingness  ! 
Sunk  she  in  thy  black  domain 
^       O  !    thou  beingless  ? 
Then  must  I  violate 

Even  thy  reign. 

To  restore  her  again, 
Or  be  annihilate  !" 

In  vain  he  questioned  Darkness  and  the  Stars, 
Ocean  and  Air,  and  the  unbreathing  blank 
Of  utter  Nothing;  from  his  hollow  heart 
Came  the  lone  answer,  "  Lillian  is  dead!" 
At  last  his  boiling  thought  grew  rudderless, 
Dashing  from  rock  to  rock  of   agony, 
Yet  ever  true  to  the  one  haven  of  wo. 


36  THE     MANIAC. 

A  mad,  wild  sympathy  with  outward  things 

Lay  in  him;  and  he  was  a  rock,  a  tree. 

Night  and  the  heavens,  and  every  thing  by  turns 

That  met  his  eye  or  whirling  phantasy; 

And  ever  his  delirious  thoughts  revolved 

Round  one  devouring  center,  like  the  rush 

Of  downward  waves  in  the  Corbrechton's  whirl; 

Now  startling  silence  with  a  wilder  song. 

"  She  has  gone,  gone,  gone  ! 

I  am  Night,  and  the  Demon  King 
Has  plucked  out  all  my  stars; 
See !  these  eye-holes  are  the  scars. 

And  the  moon  filled  this  black  ring; 
I  am  Night  with  never  a  dawn, 
She  is  gone,  gone,  gone ! 

u  For  the  Dead  my  bareness  grieves. 

1  am  a  forest  the  winds  have  whipt, 
And  left  me  not  a  leaf; 
Winter  was  the  hoary  thief 

By  whom  all  my  boughs  were  stript ; 
Winds  whirl  my  beautiful  leaves, 
For  the  dead  my  bareness  grieves. 

"  0  me  !  the  day  is  black  ! 

I  am  Day  and  the  sun  is  dead, 
Dead,  and  darker  than  pitch ! 
Now  discover  which  is  which; 


THE      MANIAC.  37 

Day  and  Night  have  met  and  wed, 
And  the  sun  will  never  come  back: 
O   me  !  the  day  is  black ! 

"Earth  will  ne'er  see  more  of  wet, 

I  am  a  cloud  that  cannot  rain; 
The  Frost  has  locked  me  up, 
Here  my  lightning-bolts  must  stop; 

Racking  me  with  inward  pain  ; 
Clouds  rack,  and  winds  fret, 
Earth  will  ne  'er  see  more  of  wet. 

"  0 !  my  brain,  my  burning  brain  ! 

Only  by  me  the  world  is  man'd, 
And  feels  my  brain  a  grip 
Out  of   which  it  cannot  slip, 

'Tis  a  Demon's  red-hot  hand  ! 
The  world  reels  into  wreck  again, 
O!  my  brain,  my  burning  brain!'' 

Aye,  could  it  rain,  could  that  all-torturing  wo 
Burst  forth  in  tears,  there  yet  were  left  some  hope 
That  light  and  greenness  would  return,  to  bless 
Thy  night  of  barrenness,  poor  Donaldane ; 
But  stars,  the  sun,  the  rain,  and  the  green  leaves 
Came  not }    and  the  hot  brain  poured  wilder  still 

Its  boiling  vortex  of   mad  phantasies, 
4» 


38  THE      MANIAC. 

And  inextinguishable  thoughts,  that  down 

To  their  fixed  center  of  eternal  black 

Rolled  headlong,  bounding  with  impetuous  whirl. 

One  day,  when  the  wild  tumult  seemed  to  sleep, 
He  went  once  more  to  the  forsaken  home 
Of  his  loved  Lillian,  to  find  perhaps 
Some  sad   joy  in  the  things  which  she  had  seen, 
The  spot  where  she  had  lived,  and  loved,  and  toiled. 
Feared,  hoped  and  died.     But  inward  waste  found  there 
Fit  symbol  in  the  out  ward ;   the  old  mill, 
Where  her  hands  grappled  the  gaunt  Hunger-fiend, 
Was  gone  to  dust;    the  fire  had  trodden  it, 
With  red  foot,  into  ashes.     Two  black  beams 
Bending  to  ruin,  held  the  tottering  weight 
Of  a  huge  wheel,  one  time  the  iron  heart 
Whence  all  those  hushed  Activities  drew  life; 
So  scorched  and  black  lay  all  his  buried  hopes, 
So,  with  shrunk  arms,  the  memory  of  the  Past 
Sustained  the  unmoving  cold  heart  of  his  Lore, 
In  thoughts,  fire-stricken,  of  his  Lillian. 

Turn  away,  mourner  !    for  that  hot  brain  spins 
And  whirls  again  to  madness;   fly  the  Dark, 
Or   it  shall  close  thee  in  for  ever—fly! 
But  he  might  never  fly  the  utter  night 
Which  was  within  him.     Ha  forgot  all  thought 
Of  why  he  came  into  that  blackened  place, 


THE     MANIAC.  39 

And  only  wondered  it  was  not  more  black. 

Then  he  dragged  on  his  shrivel'd  heart  again  ; 

And   wandered  far  away  from  his  old  home, 

In  loneliest  places,  amid  caves,  and  fens 

Thick  studded  with  dark  shrubs,  or  where  huge  rocks 

Hung  toppling,  and  strange  echoes  loved  to  dwell. 

There  was  one  spot  amid  the  Northern  hills 
He  loved,  if  it  be  love  that  weds  the  soul, 
Night-struck,  to  kindred  horrors.     Far  around 
Was  stretched  the  base  of  a  broad  pyramid, 
Rock  piled  on  rock  confused  and  tumbled  down 
In  huge  disorder,  as  if  there  were  once 
The  magazine  of  some  Heaven-warring  brood 
Titan's  or  Fiend's;   and  through  the  clefts,  between 
The  rough  round  rocks,  a  forest  of  huge  trees 
Had  forced  its  way  into  the  earth  and  heavens, 
Once  hiding  the  brown  hill  with  lovely  green  : 
But  now  the  fire  had  scathed  its  ancient  trunks, 
And  they  stood  tall  and  black,  beneath  the  moon. 
With  stout  bare  arms  stretched  threatening  to  the  sky, 
As  if  the  grim  old  giants  flung  again 
Defiance  to  the  Highest.     Some  lay  prone 
From  rock  to  rock,  or  trunk  on  trunk,  thick  fallen, 
As  smit  down  by  the  Thunderer,  like  the  field, — 
Wars  harvest  or  the  husbandman's — where  toil 
Or  sword  had  cloven  down  a  People's  hope. 


40  THEMAN1AC. 

There  the  bald  eagle  screamed,  as  he  soared  up 
In  wide  gyrations  for  his  Northern  flight. 
The  fire-eyes  of  the  wild-cat  glared  between 
The  jutting  rocks,  and  the  brown  rattlesnake 
Shook  his  shrill  signal ;   over  them,  the  owl 
Made  the  night  quiver  with  his  dismal  hoot. 
Close  round  the  mountain-base  a  narrow  swamp 
Lay  dank  and  chilly,  where,  as  o'er  a  grave, 
The  ghost-shapes  crept  in  cerements  of  white  fog, 
Out  of  whose  breast  the  frog-song7 s  dolorous  pitch 
Rose  dismally.     Across  this  Acheron 
Swelled  up  a  ferny  knoll  uncultivate 
Save  by  the  sexton's  spade;   it  was  a  place 
Of  human  graves,   for,  even  there,  in  some 
Forgotten  day,  men  lived,  and  loved,  and  died. 
Over  the  graves  a  few  half-trunks  stood  up 
Blackened  and  bare,  Fiend-watchers  waiting,  grim 
And  terrible,  for  the  waking  of  the  dead. 
Round  them  in  darkest  midnight,  travelers  lost 
Had  seen  strange  fire-balls  quiver,  and  go  out 
In  myriad  blue  sparkles,  and  come  back. 
Ere  their  arched  hairs  were  laid,  more  dreadful  still 
While  hoarse,  unearthly  cries,  and  watery  shapes 
Filled  the  deep  valley.     Wondering  fear  had  made 
That  spot  as  terrible  as  desolate. 

There  the  lone  Maniac  sought  his  noon-day  lair 
Under  a  beetling  crag,  and  fed  upon 


THE     MANIAC.  41 

The  roots  and  cresses  of  the  valley.     There 
Trampled  the  midnight  rocks  with  wandering  feet. 
And  fed  his  soul  on  horrors;  gladdened  most 
When  storm  and  rattling  thunder  rolled  above, 
And  lightning-gleams  ran  down  the  splintering  trunks, 
Licking  the  moss'd  rocks  with  blue  tongues  of  fire.1 

The  great  North  winds  went  howling  through  the  vale, 
And   the  old  tree-trunks    creaked,  and  groaned,  and 

tossed 

Their  rived  arms  round,  as  in  dumb  agony. 
The  Maniac's  eye  saw,  in  their  dim  great  forms 
Writhing  in  midnight  tempest,  the  wild  dance 
Of  giant  skeletons.     In  such  an  hour 
His   soul  rejoiced,  as  with  a  joy  of  hell, 
In  hosted  terrors.      Standing  on  the  rocks, 
While  meteors  quivered  o'er  the  marsh,  and  winds 
Were  up  among  the  tree-tops,  he  would  shout 
In  broken  song  his  mad  and  horrible  glee. 

THE    SKELETON    DANCE. 

'•'Hurrah,  hurrah,  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Who  goes  to  the  dance  to-night, 
The  great  dance  of  the  skeletons, 
The  dead  Earth's  old  and  mighty  ones, 

Stalwart  kings  of   terrible  height, 
Og  of  Bashan,  and  all  his  sons, 


42  THE     MANIAC. 

Goliath  of  Gath;  and  the  Anakims, 

Titans  huge  with  skinny  limbs; 
Giants  taller  than  Cormoran, 
Who  can  clasp  the  full  moon  at  a  span  ! 

11  See,  they  come  !    their  hall  is  there, 
On  the  rock-hill  high  and  bare, 

A  goblin  leads  them  in,  with  his  lamp, 

Whose  wicks  are  fed  with  the  oil  of  the  dead, 

And  lit  at  the  fungus  of  the  swamp. 

Hark  ye,  hear  their  hollow  tramp; 
Bony  shanks  and  grisly  locks 
Waving  and  rattling  over  the  rocks; 

Patter,  patter,  patter  !    now  how  their  feet  clatter. 
As  they  come  all  fresh  from  their  graves; 
Sweet,  grinning  and  chapless  braves, 

Dewy  and  green  with  the  sepulchre's  damp ! 

"  Blow  aloud  Piper,  blow,  blow ! 

Now  it  is  time  the  dance  began, 

Split  your  pipes  old  Borean, 
Up  and  at  it,  oho !   oho  ! 
Lead  off  yonder  a  half  a  million, 
Down  and  up  in  a  gay  cotillion  : 

Not  so  high,  you've  split  the  sky! 

Don't  you  see  how  the  fires  fly  ? 
( Bo-ho-oh-hoo-o  !   bo-whoo-oh ! ' 
Blow  aloud  Piper!    blow,  blow, 
Ha,  ha,  ha !    Cormoran's  head  beat  out  a  star. 


THEMANIAC.  43 

"Come  Typheus,  thunder-scarred, 
Rise  in  Etna's  sulphur-vomit, 
Fly  to  the  dancers  like  a  comet; 
Never  thy  frightful  wounds  regard; 

Ha,  he  comes  with  Leads  to  spare, 
A  hundred  dragon  heads  in  air; 
His  every  leap  is  a  hundred  rods, 
And  every  head  with  his  leaping  nods; 
Well  done,  terror  of  the  Gods! 
'Ba-a-a-a'  hurrah,  hurrah! 
Jupiter  thinks  it  best  to  go; 
He  sees  below,  his  old  foe, 
Wheeling  and  reeling  to  and  fro  : 

i  Caw,  caw,  caw  !  '    ha !  ha  !    ha  ! 
No  longer  Apollo  his  harp  will  follow, 
He  has  taken  to  singing  l  caw  !   caw !  caw  !  " 
Juno  lows,  Diana  mews, 

Ha,  how  the  witch-cat  flies  ! 
Do  you  see  the  sparks  of  her  eyes? 
The  coward  Gods  the  brutes  abuse. 
Ha  !   that  bolt  from  the  riven  skies ! 
Shivered  and  low  Typheus  lies, 
Despoiled  in  bones  and  thews. 

u  Mimas  aching  from  the  thunder, 
Shake  again  your  nerves  of  iron; 

Enceladus  'scaped  from  under 
Etna,  trip  with  Porphyrion, 


44  THE     MANIAC   . 

And  twisting  them  up  to  and  fro, 
Take  the  gnarled  trees  as  you  go. 

"Shaking  high  his  hundred  hands 

Rattling  bony  in  the  air, 
There  the  huge  Briareus  stands, 

Wha !  what  was  that  sudden  glare  1 
His  eyes  have  dropped  out  of  their  holes ! 
And  see  they  glow  like  burning  coals, 
Just  under  the  rock's  edge  there  ! 
'  Bo-ho-oo — Whoo-o-o.J     I  wonder 
If  Jupiter's  cart  has  dumped  its  thunder. 

"  Where's  your  Patagonian  maid 
Will  waltz  with  a  man  without  a  head? — 
.Great  Goliath  standing  there; — 
See,  his  arms  are  in  the  air, 
And  his  bones  shake  in  their  sockets 
Every  time  his  foot  the  rock  hits. 
Ho  !   make  way  for  her,  there  is  she, 
How  green  and  lanky  her  limbs  be. 
Hold  your  light  up  lantern-devil : 
Here's  the  place  to  see  the  revel. 
Whirl,  whirl,  whirl ; 
Headless  giant, 
Keep  your  eye  on 't, 
Lo  he  leaps  with  the  lanky  girl. 


THE     MANIAC.  45 

"Crash,  tumble,  rumble,  rumble, 

Crash,  flash    and  another  crash! — 
Ho,  that  Titan's  head  is  humble ; 

I  saw  it  split  on  the  rocks, 

In  a  shower  of  white  scalp-locks ; 
His  head  is  gone,  and  he  dances  on; 

And  the  grave-dust  flies  j— 
If  they  had  eyes 

:Twere  sad  work  for  them  there, 

In  such  a  horrid  air. 

"  Skinny  fragments  fall  like  rain ; 

Arm  and  shoulder,  rib  and  head, 
Rattle  down,  as  on  amain 

All  the  dead,  with  measured  tread 
Leap  at  what  the  Piper  played. 
O-o-o-o !    Piper  blow  ! 
Enceladus  now  has  played  us 
Tricks  of  the  olden  time  again. 

Piper,  pipe  it  louder  yet, 

For  a  wedding  day  is  set, 
A  wedding  of  bones,  and  a  feast  of  bones. 
And  a  sweet  symphony  of  groans ! 

Oh-ho-oh!   Louder  blow. 
On  this  rock  I  lay  my  head  ; 
Death  and  I  to-night  must  wed. 
What  a  blow!   Oh,  ho,  oh! 
5 


46  THEMANIAC. 

Demogorgon  from  the  sky 
Flung  the  socket  of  his  thigh ; 

Come,  and  see  the  blood,  Grim  ! 

Fill  your  skull  up  to  the  brim, 
Drink  it  off  and  take  a  bout, 
And  we'll  wed  when  the  dance  is  out ! 

"O  horror!   horror!  horror! 
This  was  the  grave  of  all  my  sorrow  ; 
And  one  I  knew  was  buried  there, 
Under  this  bosom  so  red  and  bare : 
I  see  !    I  see !  I  see  !   'Tis  she  ! 
Ha!   ha!   ha!     Oh,  oh,  ho!  ah!" 

A  shivered  bough  had  gored  him  in  its  fall, 

And  the  quick  lightning  showed  the  spouting  blood 

On  the  grey  rock,  an  instant,  and  was  gone. 

Phosphoric  sparks,  from  many  a  trunk's  decay, 

Showered  down  like  snow,  as  the  torn  limbs  struck  off 

The  wasting  circles  that  had  chronicled 

The  slow  flight  of  the  Ages. 

Long  he  lay 

In  pain  and  hunger,  till  a  passer  by. 
Drawn  by  his  feeble  meanings  to  the  spot, 
Took  up  the  wasted  form  and  bore  it  on 
To  the  kind  shelter  of  his  cottage  roof ; 
A  poor  man's  humble  home.     There  tenderly 


THE    MANIAC.  47 

As  he  would  nourish  his  own  father's  son, 

He  nursed  the  wounded  man;   aye,  took  the  bread 

From  his  own  lips  to  satisfy  his  want. 

His  trembling  yourikers,  while  they  shook  to  see 

Those  wild  eyes  staring  on  them,  would  divide 

Their  scanty  meal  with  him,  and  then  thank  God 

That  he  had  brought  the  poor  man  to  their  roof, 

That  they  might  know  the  blessedness  there  is 

In  heartfelt  charity.     Such  kindly  deeds 

Make  earth  more  beautiful,  and  sow  the  germs 

Of  larger  faith  in  the  wide  Human  Heart. 

More  holy  seem  they  in  the  Poor  Man's  cot, 

For  there  'tis  sweeter  virtue  to  be  kind. 

Happy  the  poor  who  can  be  generous. 

And  who  may  see  in  their  blithe  little  ones 

A  human  Heart,  expanding  their  young  breasts, 

And  opening  to  the  needy  their  small  hands 

With  some  meet  charity, — for  they  are  blessed. 

Dwelt  Donald  peaceful  in  the  cotter's  hut, 
Till  strength  and  wholeness  came  to  him  again, 
Then  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  he  fled, 
Leaving  his  helpers  to  awake  and  wonder. 
But  what  availed  their  wonder,  or  their  search? 
Far  from  their  cot  the  foot  of  Donald  ane 
Tracked  the  lone  shore,  by  midnight,  to  and  fro, 
Wet  by  the  Atlantic  wave ;  and  in  his  ear, 
The  great  voice  of  the  ever  sounding  deep 


48  THE     MANIAC. 

Rang  like  the  death  dirge  of  the  Universe. 

Away,  away  from  that  eternal  dirge 

He'd  fled,  and  ever  as  he  fled  it  rang 

Through  his  void  heart,   "  The  universe  is  dead!" 

He  plunged  into  the  waters,  but  the  waves 

Cried  "dead,"  and  flung  him  back.     In  the  blank  air 

Low  voices  whispered  hoarsely,  "dead,  dead,  dead!  " 

He  climbed  a  tall  rock  which  hung  o'er  the  sea, 

To  whose  peaked  height  no  wave  could  hurl  him  back  j 

Far  down  below  went  moaning  the  wild  dirge, 

And  forms  were  on  the  billows  beckoning  him. 

But  ha !  was  that  a  spectre,  too,  who  sank 

In  the  bare  rock  close  down  by  where  he  stood  ? 

He  recked  not,  for  that  instant  a  quick  flash 

Shot  through  his  brain,  and  over  all  the  world, 

And  struck  the  universe  and  all  things  dead ; 

Only  he  seemed  to  live.    He  saw  the  sun 

Rot  out  of  the  pale  sky,  and  grain  by  grain 

Drop  down  into  the  void  abyss  below  j1 

The  moon  waned  ray  by  ray,  till  all  was  gone  ; 

The  stars  ran  lawless  in  the  lawless  heavens, 

And  smote  each  other,  orb  on  orb  fierce-hurled 

With  mutual  ruin,  till  the  stars  were  lost, 

And  left  the  heavens  a  universal  blank. 

The  earth  decayed  and  crumbled  into  nought. 

And  inch  by  inch  the  ruin  crept  upon 

The  cliff  whereon  he  stood.    Died  heat    and  cold; 


THE     MANIAC.  49 

Darkness  and  light;   and  the  invisible  air, 

Save  where  he  hung,  evanished  and  was  not. 

Little  by  little  crumbled  down  the  cliff, 

And  like  a  sand-hill  sank  beneath  his  feet. 

He  watched  the  dwindling  atoms  as  they  fell, 

Till  they  were  lost  in  utter  nothingness. 

Stooping  to  pry  into  that  nether  Blank, 

A  fragment  of  the  chalky  rock  went  down, 

Leaving  weak  foothold  on  the  lessened  peak  : 

He  followed  with  keen  glance  the  falling  mass, 

Yet  clinging  with  strange  terror  to  the  firm, 

And,  as  the  last  point  vanished  on  its  track, 

As  melting,  fading  it  went  whirling  on — 

Dim  rising  like  a  vapor,  from  the  deep, 

He  saw — ah  yes !  it  was  his  Lillian  ; 

Distinct  one  moment,  and  her  pale  form  grew 

Fainter  and  fainter  in  the  hollow  deep ; 

An  infinite  sadness  shone  in  her  white  face, 

And  seemed  it  tears  were  in  her  melting  eyes. 

"  Stay !  stay  !  ;'   shrieked  Donald,    "  Lillian  !  Lillian  ! 

What  means  this  ruin  ?     stay,  my  love !    0  stay. 

And  I  will  come  to  thee!"    Came  faintly  back 

A  musical  voice,  as  vanished  the  last  glimpse 

Of  her  fair  form,  "  THE  UNIVERSE  is  DEAD  !  :' 

Off  from  the  rock,  that  shivered  at  his  leap, 

He  plunged  into  the  void  and  utter  Blank^ 

Whirling  in  breathless  horror,  down,  down,  down, 
5* 


50  THE     MANIAC. 

Ten  thousand  thousand  fathoms  hurled  below ; 
Right  on,  and  on,  and  on,  with  nought  of  life, 
Fluid  or  solid  round,  whereby  to  count 
The  long  dark  ages  of  his  awful  flight. 
Swifter  and  swifter  down  with  lightning  speed 
Through  infinite  blankness,  dumb  and  terrible, 
He  whirled  away  whole  Eons.  Cycles  vast, 
By  fire-leaps  numbered  of  his  burning  heart, 
Whose  molten  lead  drove  down  with  gathering  force 
His  whirling  form,  sheer   through  the  immense   pro 
found  j 

Deep  below  deep,  abyss  beneath  abyss, 
Boundless  on  boundless  stretching ;   down  and  down 
With  swift  redoubling  speed,  beyond  the  flight 
Of  never-flagging  and  all-piercing  thought  j 
Falling  and  falling,  and  each  nether  deep 
The  height  from  which  to  plunge  into  the  void, 
Ten  thousand  times  his  utmost  reach,  below, 
Into  the  soundless,  everlasting  DOWN  ! 
Of  infinite  being,  only  he  was  left, 
A  flying  atom  in  a  boundless  blank ; 
And  this  his  wild  down  rushing,  the  one  force 
Left  of  the  countless  potencies.     "  0  now 
For  one  firm  rock  whereon  to  dash  this  clay 
Into  impalpable  atoms!     But,  alas  ! 
The  very  rocks  have  perished.    0  my  God ! 


THE     M  ANI  AC  .  51 

Is  this  wild  fall  for  ever?  with  no  end, 

No  end,  but  just  beginning  when  the  last 

Far  stretch  of  Thought  has  spanned  innumerous  years  ? 

But  oh,  no  hope  !   for  God  himself  is  dead ! 

Chaos  is  dead,  and  I  am  all  that  is." 

Such  thought,  an  instant  flashing  o'er  his  brain, 

Had  measured,  in  his  fall,  ten  thousand  times 

The  space  from  earth  to  the  remotest  star, 

Till  in  his  seeming  he  had  noxv  become 

Only  a  formless  motion  whirling  on, — 

When  a  dull  plunge  and  momentary  rush 

Of  waters  over  him,  brought  back  the  sense 

Of  Life,  the  Ocean,  and  the  world,  once  more : 

He  had  plunged  down  delirious  from  the  rock, 

Into  the  hungry  deep.    Another  dash 

In  the  white  wave,  a  few  brave  swimmer-strokes 

Beating  the  insatiate  waters  back,  and  then 

A  strong  hand  griped  him  by  his  lifted  arm, 

And  held  him  forward  to  the  dim  shore-line ; 

Another  hand  smote  fast  the  indignant  waves, 

That  growled  to   see  their  prey  plucked  from  their 

jaws; 

And  mid  rude  buffetings  and  swelling  rage 
Manfully  kept  the  wide-mouthed  ruin  back. 
Treading  the  waters  under  him,  like  a  Soul 
Ploughing  through  overwhelming  doubt  to  light, 


52  THEMANIAC. 

Sped  the  bold  swimmer  to  the  solid  land ; 

Now  wholly  plunged  beneath  the  breaking  wave. 

And  now  high  hung  in  the  dim  star-lit  air; 

Borne  like  the  sea-bird  on  the  backward  rush 

Of  the  recoiling  billows,  or  sucked  down 

In  some  wild  whirl  which  gurgles  round  the  rocks 

That  gird  the  shore.     0  gallantly  that  hand 

Shook  death  and  terrors  off,  wreathed  in  the  mane 

Of  the  devouring  monster,  from  whose  throat 

Its  worthy  mate  drew  forth  the  helpless  prey ; 

And  both  nigh  spent  with  straining  toil  bore  up 

The  rescued  Maniac  to  the  solid  shore. 

Leaned  on  a  rock  they  rested  side  by  side, 
The  stranger  and  the  madman,  silently 
Gazing  by  starlight  into  either  face. 
The  sudden  dash  of  chill  waves  over  him 
Half  cooled  in  Donald's  ever  burning  brain 
The  hot  hand  clenching  it,  for  now  his  wild 
Despairing  look,  was  changed  to  boundless  grief, 
As  he  met  calmly  the  inquiring  glance 
Of  his  Deliverer.     But  they  spoke  no  word; 
The  stranger  asked  not  of  his  wretchedness, 
Why  with  such  desperation  he  had  sought 
To  force  the  secrets  of  the  Great  Unknown; 
Whether  'twere  madness,  or  vain  love,  or  both, 


THE     MANIAC.  53 

Made  such  rude  knocking  at  the  gate  of  death ; 

He  asked  not,  for  within  his  pitying  glance, 

And  the  warm  drops  that  from  his  mild  eye  fell 

On  the  poor  Maniac  's  hand  — no  dripping  brine 

From  the  cold  deep, —  was  haply  something  told 

Of  a  tried  heart,  too  well  acquaint  with  tears 

To  rush  profanely  on  another's  \vo, 

And  pry  into  that  deepest  sanctity, 

The  holy  shrine  of  Sorrow.     Silently 

They  gazed  upon  each  other,  silently 

Rose,  and  together  under  the  still  stars 

Went  forward  to  a  dim-seen  cot,  that  stood 

Just  on  the  eastern  horizon ;  for  now 

The  cold  wind  of  advancing  Autumn  searched 

Their  drenched  limbs  with  too  keen  a  scrutiny. 

They  roused  the  dwellers,  and  the  dwellers  stirred 

The  slumbering  fire,  whose  quivering  tongues  licked  up 

The  traveller's  briny  drench.     And  all  that  rude, 

Great-hearted,  rough-palmed  kindness  could  'perform, 

Was  offered  gladly;  for  the  dwellers  there 

Knew  well  such  suffering;  who  full  oft  had  seen 

The  struggling  mariner  bear  bravely  up, 

When  the  great  storm-waltz  churned  the  troubled  sea 

Into  a  foam  around  his  splintered  bark; 

And  they  had  ever  a  stout  hand  to  help, 

An  open  heart  to  pity  the  distressed. 


54  THE     MANIAC. 

Worn  with  long  watching,  Donaldane  sank  down 
In  fitful  sleep  before  the  blazing  fire. 
Where  they  had  spread  for  him  a  hasty  couch ; 
And  sleep  that  night  on  many  a  rougher  bed 
Showered  sweeter   dreams  than   could  have   pierced 

the  ring 
Of  that  poor  Maniac's  fire-girdled  brain. 

Briefly  the  stranger,  who  had  sometimes  seen 

Those  hardy  dwellers,  as  they  plied  their  trade 

On  the  great  waters  —  faithful  fishermen, — 

Told  as  he  might,  what  brought  them,  in  such  hour 

Such  guests,  unbidden,  to  their  courtesy. 

He  had  gone  forth  to  muse  upon  the  rocks; 

Whether  for  love  of  the  immortal  stars, 

The  divine  Darkness,  and  the  moaning  sea, 

Or  full  of  grief,  he  said  not;  there  he  sat 

In  long  down-looking  through  the  crystal  earth, 

Into  its  mystery,  so  held  entranced 

He  marked  not  other  watcher,  till  the  foot 

Of  the  intruder  roused  him,  pressing  close 

To  where  he  rested  o  'er  some  thunder-scar, 

Or  earthquake-track,  ploughed  in  the  cliff  long  since. 

Lightly  he  dropped  unheeded  in  the  cleft, 

While  passed  the  intruder  on  and  stood  upright 

On  the  rock's  verge,  so  statue-like  and  firm, 

He  seemed  as  chiseled  from  the  solid  cliff. 


THEMANIAC.  55 

"Why  thus  alone,  close  o'er  the  dizzy  edge 

Where  the  young  eagle  would  have  shrunk  to  rest, 

He  stood  so  fearlessly,"  the  stranger  said, 

"I  marvelled  much,  and  twice  or  thrice  half  rose 

To  snatch  him  from  the  imminent  peak,  as  some 

Half-seeing  guess  of  his  intent  spurred  on; 

But  not  a  limb  stirred,  and  it  well  might  be 

No  ill  thought  led  him ;  for  I  could  not  trace 

What  passion  worked  in  his  reverted  face, 

Madness,  or  grief,  or  poesy.     But  still 

I  watched  him,  busied  with  the  inward  thought 

Of  what  might  chance.    Far  o'er  the  jutting  rock 

He  bent  and  spoke,  I  only  heard  the  name 

Of  c Lillian  •' — c Hold  rash  man!' — but  he  marked  not, 

For  as  I  leapt  to  snatch  him  from  his  fall, 

Light  as  a  bird  he  vaulted  from  the  cliff, 

Into  the  deep  below.     Force  forwarding 

Instinctive  impulse,  urged  me  headlong  down 

The  same  wild  flight,  by  many  an  early  feat 

Of  rash  boy-daring  made  less  terrible. 

I  saw  his  hand  above  the  water  stretched, 

And  round  me  the  dark  shore — a  broken  wall 

Crushing  the  insurgent  waters  into  sound, 

Which  heaven  flung  back  in  spray  of  sparkling  light ; 

What  toil  to  reach  that  shore  it  matters  not, 

Since  here  we  are,  delivered  from  the  deep. 

Yon  restless  sleeper,  moaning  in  his  dreams, 


56  THEMANIAC. 

May  prove  some  frantic  lover  smit  with  grief, 

Whom  cruel  pangs  have  urged  to  desperate  deeds. 

Kindness  will  knit  again  his  raveled  heart, 

And  he  will  live  to  bless  you,  when  the  love 

Of  all  repays  him  for  the  loss  of  one. 

Be  whom  he  may,  or  what  the  ill  that  draws 

His  death-ward  glances  may;  be  sure  of  this, 

Kind  deeds  were  never  lost,  and  cannot  be. 

I  go  my  way  and  ye  will  see  me  not, 

Take  this  and  help  the  needy."     He  flung  down 

His  scanty  purse,  and  if  it  were  not  much, 

Those  tears  of  Love,  which  quenched  his  manly  eyes, 

Were  worth  a  thousand  such,  arid  yet  'twas  all. 

He  stayed  no  words  but  left  them  wondering, 

And  the  grey  morning  knew  not  where  he  fled. 

Years  rolled  and  Change  kept  its  unchanging  course. 
Where  now  is  the  heart-shriveled  maniac, 
To  whom  the  gyres  of  Time  had  been  in  red 
Fire-cycles,  wheeling  through  the  heaven's  black  vault? 
No  more  the  hills  are  startled  by  his  cry, 
Or  the  swamp  echoes  with  his  horrible  laugh ; 
Where  now  is  that  forlorn  and  wretched  man1? 
He  had  gone  back  to  his  ancestral  home, 
Wild  as  the  gale,  yet  harmless  as  the  breeze, 
And  0  for  the  sweet  name  of  Christian  Love, 


THE     MANIAC.  57 

And  brotherly  affection !  he  who  found 

In  stranger-hearts  the  tender  sympathy 

He  needed  most,  but  knew  not  how  to  prize, 

Was  brotherless  in  his  own  home,  though  some 

Who  called  his  dead  sire   "  Father,"  gathered  there. 

They  cast  him  on  the  hard  and  legal  stint 

Of  a  Town's  charity,  whose  loveless  gifts 

Are  meted  out  with  cold  official  care, 

By  grudging  souls,  who  feed  on  the  decay 

Of  starving  mendicants, — keepers  of  the  Poor, 

Scanting  the  little  they  need  least  of  all — 

The  coveted  pittance  of  unsocial  bread ; — 

Denying  wholly  what  they  most  require, 

The  tender  love  which  all  men  owe  to  all, 

And  most,  to  the  infirm,  forlorn,  and  poor. 

Into  such  hands  they  gave  their  brotherless 
And  stricken  brother,  and  thenceforward  deemed 
The  perfect  law  of  Charity  fulfilled. 
Three  times  a  day,  around  their  smoking  board, 
They  thanked  the  Lord  for  his  great  bounty,  given 
To  them  unworthy,  wholly  vile  and  lean  j 
Three  times  a  week,  at  sound  of  Sabbath-bell. 
They  went  into  the  synagogues  to  pray; 
And  gave  thank-offerings  of  words  to  God : 
And  twice  a  year  paid  meager  tithes  to  feed 

The  Poor  they  spurned  from  all  their  bolted  doosr ; 
6 


58  THE      MANIAC. 

But  never  gave  kind  word,  or  gentle  look, 
To  feed  the  keener  hunger  of  the  heart. 

Soul-buried  Donald,  what  a  home  was  thine  ! 

Only  one  house  so  narrow,  none  so  cold. 

Half  sunk  in  earth,  and  fashioned  of  bare  stones 

As  if  from  their  own  bosoms  rived,  they  built 

A  prison  for  the  outcast,  goaded  on 

By  Fear  and  Mammon;  there  they  thrust  him  in, 

A  crimeless  victim,  to  that  living  grave 

So  close,  that,  burrowed  in  his  broken  straw, 

His  outstretched  hand  might  rest  on  either  wall. 

Silent  and  savage,  in  his  noisome  den, 

Grim  as  a  wolf  he  sat,  as  day  by  day 

Through  the  black  bars,  at  morning's  twilight  hour. 

They  gave  him  food.    A  blanket  torn  and  foul, 

Garment  and  bed,  half  covered  his  gaunt  form. 

And  it  was  stiff  with  winter's  icy  breath. 

All  night  the  hoar-frost  gathered  on  the  wall, 

And  scarce  the  day  could  melt  it  into  dew, 

The  pent  air  hung  around  the  horrid  cell, 

Heavy  with  torture,  rank  with  lingering  death, 

And  loathsome  as  the  uribreathing  sepulcher. 

Once,  long  ago,  he  howled  in  agony, — 

Smote  the  hard  walls,  and  gnashed  upon  the  bars. 

When  first  he  saw  how  dreadful  was  the  doom 

Which  closed  him  in;  but  many,  many  moons. 


THE     MANIAC.  59 

Had  fill'd  above  him  since  he  was  worn  down 

To  a  grim,  silent  hopelessness,  a  dumb 

Pale  image  of  insufferable  wo. 

A  thousand  times  returning  day  revealed 

That  tomb's  black  maw  to  his  unmoving  eye, 

A  thousand  times  more  welcome  darkness  drew 

Tts  ebon  curtain  round  his  darker  soul. 

Till  he  had  lost  all  thought  of  night  or  day, 

Of  cold  or  heat,  and  there  was  left  alone 

One  dull  unbounded  sense  of  misery. 

Were  it  not  better  that  the  narrower  house — 
Where  never  change  can  mock  the  heart  with  hope, 
And  there  is  left  no  room  for  wo  to  come — 
Were  now  his  resting  place  ?    It  is  not  well 
That  such  a  den  should  keep  a  human  form; 
And  who  may  break  its  iron  bars  but  Death? 
Death's  mightier;  Love!  the  one  Omnipotent, 
Nerving  with  strength  the  boundless  heart  of  man. 

There  had  gone  up  from  many  a  gloomy  lair 

In  the  wide  land, — where  madness  clanked  its  chain, 

And  eat  the  bread  of  bitterness— the  cry 

Of  spirit's  desolation,  the  wild  laugh, 

The  maniac  yell,  the  mumbled  muttering, 

And  feeblest  low  whine  of  inanity, 

Blending  in  one  shrill  piercing  dissonance. — 

The  wild  dirge  of  dethroned  Divinities, — 

Of  Soul  and  Heart,  driven  crownless,  and  in  chains 


60  THE     MANIAC. 

-  Of  utter  darkness,  to  lone  wandering. 
Pity  had  poured  her  tears  upon  the  scars 
And  fetters  of  the  Bondman,  not  in  vain  j 
Had  blessed  the  toil-worn  laborer  with  her  prayers. 
Sought  out  the  pale,  despairing  Magdalen, 
Whom  heartless  c  virtue  J  spurned  from  human  love, 
And,  with  a  thousand  deeds  of  blessedness, 
Won  heaven  for  bosoms  that  did  shelter  her; 
But  long  her  ear  caught  not  the  moan  of  these 
Out-cast  so  far,  so  lonely  cooped,  in  dens 
And  iron  cages,  ;mid  the  louder  din 
Of  tongued  and  congregated  suffering. 
But  Love  will  quicken  the  dull  sense,  and  find 
An  ear  for  every  feeblest  sound  of  want; 
Sorrow  shall  not  be  buried  down  so  deep, 
But  God,  and  the  good  hearts  he  dwelleth  in, 
Will  hear  its  smothered  voice,  and  bring  relief. 

The  broken  moans  of  crazed  Humanity 

Cast  forth  and  wandering  stark  among  the  tombs 

And  crying  fellowless  from  granite  dens, 

At  last  went  thrilling  through  the  great,  warm  heart 

Of  one  weak  woman,  touching  there  the  chords 

Of  infinite  pity,  whose  low  melody 

Kindled  her  woman' s-heart  to  heroic  strength 

And  divine  daring,  as  no  bugle-blast 

E'er  fired  the  warrior's  in  the  field  of  arms. 

Despite  the  scorn  of  little  souls  wrapped  up 


THE      MANIAC.  61 

la  their  huge  seeming,  the  unmanly  taunt 
Of  polished  ruffians,  or  the  coarser  jeers 
Of  brutal  Ignorance,  like  a  ray  from  God 
She  shot  clear  day-light  into  darkened  souls ; 
Melted  Memnonian  music  from  stone  hearts, 
And  lit  again  the  altars  of  old  joy: 
Or  rather  was  she  not  the  incarnate  soul 
Of  primal  harmony,  binding  up  once  more 
The  shivered  chords  of  Life,  in  many  a  breast, 
Tuning  again  the  jangled  hearts  that  wo 
Had  stricken  into  discord  ?     A  sweet  Spring 
To  shivering  birds  whose  song  was  frozen  up  j 
A  soft  shower  to  the  desert,  in  whose  tears. 
Glittering  with  new  God's-promises,  the  scorched 
And  shriveled  flowers,  sprang  fresh  and  beautiful, 
With  some  sweet  gleams  of  earlier  loveliness. 
Was  she  not  sent  from  God  to  teach  anew 
The  evangel  of  old  prophets, — the  supreme 
Omnipotence  of  Love, — at  whose  meek  voice 
Loudest  and  dumbest  demons  are  cast  out ; 
And  in  whose  sunny  glance  the  earthliest  soul 
Puts  on  a  hue  of  life's  own  verdantness  ? 

From  tomb  to  tomb  she  passed,  where  blind  unlove 
Had  chained  its  wretched  victims,  and  brought  out 
The  dead  and  dark  into  the  marvelous  light 
Of  Life  and  Love.     Servant  of  him  who  is 
6* 


62  THE     MA  N  IAC. 

"The  Resurrection  and  the  Life,"  she  called 

The    bound,  soul-blind,    and    heart-dead,    back  from 

death, 

Opened  their  wondering  eyes,  to  see  the  chain 
Struck  off,  and  the  black  sepulcher  left  behind  : 
While  earth  once  more  became  a  verity. 
For  even  to  them,  long  barred  in  hopeless  gloom. 
To  whom  the  great  world  had  become  a  hell? 
Or  an  unmeaning  blank,  there  yet  was  left 
Some  beauty  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  trees ; 
Some  music  in  the  birds  and  water-falls : 
Some  joy  in  Love,  some  glimmer  of  live  hope, 
In  the  great  fore-life  of  Eternity. 

Donald  sat  crouching  in  his  lonely  cave. 

With  pale  cheek  leaned  upon  his  fleshless  hand. 

Hollow  with  hunger,  and  disease,  and  wo, 

His  eye  fixed  on  the  earth  with  vacant  stare. 

Alas!    why  trouble  him,  that  filthy  mass 

Of  rags  will  be  his  shroud,  this  narrow  pit 

His  grave  ere  long,  what  now  has  life  for  him  ? 

Ah3  say  it  not.     If  the  expiring  lamp 

May  blaze  one  instant  brightly  ere  it  die, — 

If  the  parched  summer  may  have  one  fresh  shower, 

And  a  short  greenness,  ere  the  winter  come, — 

If  the  dark  Soul  may  catch  one  glimpse  of  heaven, 

Ere  it  fly  forth  into  the  vast  Unknown, — 


THE     MANIAC.  63 

Say  not  £  what  boots  it  ? '   God  is  shining  there, 
Making  such  life-frora-death  most  beautiful. 

Strong  hands  put  back  the  rusted  bolt  which  held 

The  prisoner's  door,  and  the  old  hinges  growled 

To  be  thus  shaken  from,  their  long  repose; 

And  then  a  light  step,  and  a  silvery  voice 

Were  heard  in  the  poor  Maniac's  cell.     Ah,  me ! 

What  should  soft  woman  seek  in  such  a  spot1? 

Know  ye  not  then  this  history  of  her  heart, 

Where  man  can  suffer  she  can  minister? 

11  Donald  !  "  he  moved  not,  and  a  gentle  hand 

Fell  lightly  on  his  shoulder.     "Donaldane, 

Come,  Spring  is  waking  up  the  flowers  again, 

And  the  young  birds  are  glad ;  come  forth  and  feel 

The  sunshine,  and  the  soft  wind."     "Yes,"   he  said, 

"I  know  it,  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  tired- 

But  I  must  watch  to  keep  the  worms  away. 

0  she  had  beautiful  eyes  —  a  grave-worm  came 

And  gnawed  them  hollow,  one  day,  while  I  slept: 

And  now  they're  crawling  to  her  lips!"    His  eye? 

Just  lifted,  rested  on  his  warden's  form 

Leaned  by  the  door,  and  a  half-savageness 

Lit  them  a  moment,  as  he  fell  again 

Into  grim  silence.    With  one  hand,  waved  back 

That  woman  the  stern  warder,  and  in  one 

Took  Donald's  skeleton  hand,  and  with  a  firm 


64  THE      MA  MAC. 

But  tender  earnestness,  and  many  words 
Fit  spoken,  led  him  forth  into  the  air, 
On  unresisting  limbs  that  feebly  bore 
The  weight  of  his  shrunk  body:   once  in  fear 
And  weak  defiance  he  looked  back,  but  saw 
No  watcher,  and  then  tottered  feebly  on 
With  his  heroic  Leader,  and  behind 
Left  his  wolf-lair  forever. 

Many  days 

Went  over  his  new  home,  before  the  light 
Pierced  down  into  his  soul,  yet  more  and  more 
His  heart  knew  rest,  and  sometimes  a  half-joy 
Shone  in  his  dimmed  eye.     Summer  came,  and  forth 
Among  the  green  shrubs,  and  the  pleasant  flowers, 
He  walked  and  sat,  while  every  day  there  came 
Some  larger  sense  of  freedom  and  of  peace  j 
And  more  and  more  the  music  of  kind  hearts 
Awoke  in  him  a  consciousness  of  love. 
His  step  was  feeble  on  the  green-sward  path, 
For  sure  Consumption,  with  white  hand,  had  come 
To  lead  him  home,  so  long  a  wanderer. 
But  while  the  wasting  form  consumed  away, 
The  Spirit  grew  imore  gentle  and  serene, 
With  oft  a  trembling  gleam  of  innocent  joy. 
Long  as  the  Summer  walked  upon  the  hills 
He  sought  the  fields,  with  feeble  step  and  slow, 


T  H  E      M  AN  I  A  C  .  65 

Rested,  or  moved  among  their  pleasant  things, 

Silent  and  smiling  all  the  live-long  day, 

And  not  unblessed  the  quiet  hours  stole  on. 

He  plucked  the  silken  tassels  of  the  corn. 

And  sported  with  them  with  a  child's  delight ; 

He  watched  the  wild-flowers  in  their  opening  growth. 

And,  when  the  sun  shrunk  up  their  delicate  leaves, 

Brought  water  in  his  palm  to  nourish  them; 

He  took  the  fire-fly  from  the  cruel  mesh 

Of  the  black  spider,  and  clapped  hands  for  joy 

To  see  the  winged  star  mount  into  its  heaven ; 

Piled  nuts  upon  the  jutty  rocks,  where  chirped 

The  blithe  red  squirrel,  for  he  said  it  was 

His  little  brother  ;  and  one  day  he  saw 

The  new  moon,  shriveled  to  a  very  thread, 

Go  down  behind  a  rock,  and  he  stole  out 

With  a  rich  bowl  of  milk,  and  set  it  there 

For  his  pale  sister.     Ah,  poor  heart  of  hearts; 

>T\vas  shivered,  but  had  kept  its  gentle  love. 

When  Autumn  came,  and  the  cold  winds  were  out, 

He  went  no  more  into  the  open  fields, 

But  Peace  sat  with  him  at  the  ingle-side. 

He  half  remembered  his  old  joy  of  heart, 

And  partly  knew  that  there  had  been  a  cloud 

Over  his  being;  and  sometimes  he  spoke 

Of  the  new  Life  that  waited  for  him,  there 

Up  where  the  stars  were,  and  the  great  moon    went 


66  THE     MANIAC. 

When  she  came  back  out  of  her  western  grave. 
He  saw  a  coffin  lowered  into  the  earth, 
And  while  they  wept,  who  stood  around,  he  said 
He  would  not  that  when  he  had  gone  away 
They  should  enclose  him  so,  but  he  would  have 
His  bosom  bare  to  the  fresh  earth,  and  then 
He  would  rise  up,  pure  from  the  grosser  clay, 
A  beautiful  mist,  and  soar  into  the  sky, 
All  full  of  sunshine  and  of  happiness, 
Floating  aloft  and  feasting  on  the  scent 
Of  blooming  roses.     Never  more  the  moon 
Should  pine  away  for  grief  and  loneliness, 
For  he  would  love  her;  and  love  all  her  stars, 
And  they  should  only  weep  henceforth  for  joy, 
To  light  with  dew  the  blooming  stars  of  earth. 

And  so  with  fancies  strange  but  beautiful 
And  tinged  with  colors  of  his  earlier  love, 
He  spent  the  hours,  and  ere  the  Autumn  boughs 
Were  stripped  of  their  bright  hues,  he  closed  his  eyes : 
And  while  a  sweet  smile  curled  his  pallid  lip, 
He  whispered  <:  Lillian,"  and  passed  away, 
Still  as  the  falling  leaf  when  not  a  breeze 
Disturbs  the  splendor  of  the  Autumn  wood. 

NOTE. — The  description  of  the  Maniac's  cell  is  no  fancy  sketch,  but 
a  faithful  picture  of  one  seen  by  the  writer,  and  from  which  that 
noble  woman,  and  devoted  philanthropist,  DOROTHEA  L.  Dix,  rescued 
a  victim,  as  described  in  the  poem. 


THE  LITTLE  BOTANIST. 

NOT  always  written  on  the  sky, 

Or  in  the  clouds  of  stormy  weather 
When  blast  and  hurricane  go  by, 

Bowing  the  forest  tops  together,- 
Or  calmer,  in  the  sunny  glen, — 
Or  in  the  deeds  of  mighty  men — 
Brave  heroes  who  have  dared  to  die 
For  Truth,  for  Home,  or  Liberty, — 

God's  living  oracles  have  been; 
Nor  grey-haired  Bard,  nor  ancient  Seer 

Alone  are  sent  to  spread  before 

Our  vision  the  immortal  lore 
And  Life,  that  one  day  shall  appear; 
But  0,  to  him  who  knows  the  worth 

Of  artless  wisdom,  undefiled 
By  the  deceitful  guiles  of  Earth, 
How  much  of  these  is  shadowed  forth 

Even  in  a  LITTLE  CHILD. 

Not  far  from  where  I  dwelt  a  Boy, 
A  Boy  dwells  now,  whose  soul  of  joy 


68  THE     LITTLE     BOTANIST. 

Awoke  in  me  this  thought; 
And  drew  me,  by  his  heart's  sunshine, 
In  token  of  its  light  to  mine, 
To  fashion  this  memorial  line. 

For  joy  within  me  wrought. 
I  have  no  gaudy  tale  to  tell 
Of  what  that  simple  child  befell, 
To  captive  idle  ears,  or  make 
The  breathless  heart  of  wonder  quake  j 

But  if  within  his  Soul  is  aught 

Of  light,  by  this  dim  mirror  caught, 
Which  in  another's  Soul  may  wake 
One  nobler  impulse,  for  his  sake 
I  speak,  and  am  rewarded  well. 

T  saw  him  by  his  Father's  gate, 
A  ruddy  boy  of  seven  or  eight, 
Who  at  a  glance  might  seem,  in  sooth, 
Of  manners  artless  and  uncouth; 
But  there  was  something  in  the  working 
Of  his  deep  brow,  and  eye,  so  fraught 
With  the  light  shade  of  passing  Thought, 
Which  told  what  Soul  within  was  lurking. 

A  merry  lad  he  was  that  day, 
Exulting  in  a  new-found  prize, 

And  by  his  side  a  lamb  at  play 
Mimicked  his  sportive  ecstasies 


THE     LITTLE    BOTANIST.  69 

Fellow  of  both,  in  frolic  glee 
A  petted  dog  ran  sniffing  there, 
Coated  with  curls  of  soft  brown  hair 
And  breast  as  white  as  lilies  are  ; 

Right  blithe  companions  were  the  three  ! 

With  joy  the  lamb  leapt,  and  with  joy 

Leapt  the  glad  dog,  and  leapt  the  Boy 
With  deeper  joy,  which  could  not  wait 

To  find  an  utterance  on  his  tongue, 
As  o'er  the  ditch,  and  through  the  gate, 

Merry  as  he  might  be  he  sprung. 
His  features  kindled  with  delight, 

And  ;neath  a  forehead  high  and  bowed 
His  soft  blue  eyes  were  beaming  bright, 

Like  sky-lakes  'neath  a  moonlit  cloud. 
His  heart  was  full  and  running  o'er 

From  laughing  eye  and  curling  lip, 
As  with  the  darling  flowers  he  bore — 
New  flowers  he  had  not  seen  before, — 

He  seemed  in  joyous  fellowship : 
And  even  amid  his  merriest  dance 
There  beamed  such  pity  in  his  glance, 
That  one  could  not  refuse  to  bless 
The  Boy  for  his  sweet  tenderness. 

• 
Whether  his  Thoughts  knew  words  or  no, 

I  know  not  now;   if  haply  so, 
7 


70  THE    LITTLE     BOTANIST. 

That  laugh,  arid  leap,  and  look  of  his, 
Wedded  to  language  which  would  tell 
What  they  revealed  to  me  so  well, 

Might  flow  into  a  song  like  this. 

"Ha,  ha!  Ye  thought  ye  had  hid  in  the  rocks 

Where  the  little  marmots  dwell, 
Or  crept  away  from  the  eye,  and  shocks 
Of  the  storm,  in  the  hedge,  where  the  robber  fox 

Hath  fashioned  his  cavern  well. 

ii. 

"  But  vain  the  thought,  for  ye  well  may  know 

I  can  catch  the  peep  of  your  eyes; 
And  since  the  sun  has  drunk  up  the  snow, 
I've  sought  for  ye  high,  and  sought  for  ye  low, 
Till  now  ye  are  all  my  prize. 

in. 

"  0  beautiful  flowers,  had  ye  only  sprung 

Where  I  wander  every  day, 
And  here  your  buds  and  bells  had  swung 
In  the  gentle  breeze,  when  the  day  was  young, 

I  would  never  have  torn  ye  away. 

IV. 

• 

"But  you  might  long  have  filled  the  air 
With  scents,  and  a  silver  chime, 


THE    LITTLE     BOTANIST.  71 

As  the  armed  Bee  came  humming  there, 
Repaying  with  music  the  sweets  ye'd  spare, 
Through  the  sunny  summer  time. 

v. 

"I  fear  ye  may  wither  and  fade  in  the  sun, 

As  his  noon-day  beams  appear, 
Yet  then,  as  now,  I  will  still  love  on, 
And  though  ye  wither  away  each  one, 

To  me  ye  '11  be  ever  as  dear. 

VI. 

u  For  you  my  heart,  all  over  the  hills 

Went  out,  in  my  dreaming  hours, 
And  where  a  fresh  green  betrayed  the  rills, 
Where  the  Pee-weets  dip  their  little  bills, 

It  dwelt  among  the  flowers. 

VII. 

"0  the  cool  and  joyous  morning  time; 

When  the  buds  unlock  their  cells, 
How  sweet  is't  then,  o'er  the  hills  to  climb, 
And  hunt  the  plants  in  their  dewy  prime, 

Where  the  spring  from  its  moss-cup  wells; 

VIII. 

"In  glens  where  the  earliest  bird -notes  rung, 
Through  the  woody  paths  to  tread, 


72  THE    LITTLE    BOTANIST. 

Where  the  Spider's-web  on  the  bush  is  hung, 
With  beads  of  gold  and  diamond  strung 
On  every  glittering  thread. 

IX. 

"  Bright  flowers !  ye  are  mine,  though  I  know  it 's 
a  grief 

To  your  kind,  that  ye  are  gone; 
But  I've  bound  ye  up  in  a  delicate  sheaf. 
And  kissed  the  dew  from  each  velvet  leaf, 

So  do  not  droop  forlorn. 


"  I  '11  bury  your  roots  in  a  beautiful  vase, 

And  water  you  every  day. 
Then  will  ye  not  look  with  a  joyful  face, 
Whenever  I  come  to  your  resting  place, 

My  bonny  flowers  and  gay?" 

Then  crowed  the  lad  for  very  joy, 

And  leapt  o'er  stone-heap  grey,  and  log 

The  lamb  ran  frisking  with  the  Boy, 
Ran  frisking  with  them  both,  the  dog. 

He  was  a  Boy  who  well  might  be 

His  'father's  hope,  his  mother's  pride,' 
Though  given  oft  to  such  rude  glee, 
Yet  a  most  thoughtful  lad  was  he, — 


THE     LITTLE     BOTANIST.  73 

Even  in  his  very  infancy 
Viewing  with  high  Philosophy, 

Whatever  might  betide. 
The  heavy  tomes  of  bard  or  sage, 
That  baffled  oft  maturer  age, 
He  bent  above  with  eager  thirst, 
And  there  his  infant  wonder  nurst ; 
For  with  like  ease  he  would  devour 
The  hidden  lore  of  book,  or  flower; 
But  chiefly  'twas  his  joy  to  be 

Amid  the  old  and  silent  wood, 

Communing  with  its  solitude, 

And  making  it  sweet  company : 
And  many  a  long  and  weary  jaunt, 

With  dog  and  lamb,  the  child  would  take  ; 
No  fear  his  simple  heart  to  daunt, 

As,  threading  woodland  path  and  brake, 
He  paused  at  every  blooming  plant 

To  greet  it  for  its  beauty's  sake. 
No  living  thing  would  do  him  harm, 

He  had  a  heart  so  full  of  love ; 
The  snake  would  check  his  evil  charm, 
And  round  the  hazel  stems  entwine 
His  lithe  form,  in  a  spiral  line, — 

While  on  the  ashen  bough  above, 

The  hawk  sat  quiet  as  the  dove; 
For  nought  could  do  a  cruel  deed, 
7* 


74  THE    LITTLE    BOTANIST. 

Which  came  within  his  gentle  heed  : 
And  every  little  bird  which  flew, 

Would  sing  to  him  with  right  good  will, 
For  well  the  merry  warblers  knew 

The  Boy  had  not  a  thought  of   ill. 

His  home  was  on  the  woodland  marge, 
Retired  from  Labor's  busy  din, 

Fit  place  to  make  his  bosom  large, 
By  nursing  of  the  heart  within. 

There  soulless  traffic  had  not  thrust 
Green  Nature  from  her  regal  throne, 
Torn  from  her  breast  the  bosky  zone, 

And  trod  her  children  in  the  dust; 

The  birds  had  not  been  taught  to  know, 

In  every  man,  a  wanton  foe ; 

And  though  the  nimble  rabbit  flew, 

If,  wandering,  ye  came  in  view, 

You'd  see  him  at  a  moment's  turn 

Nibbling  his  clover  in  the  fern. 

There  trod  the  Boy  untrodden  ways, 

Save  where  the  kine  went  forth  to  graze, 

Or  silly  sheep,  in  sinuous  file, 

Through  pastures  tracked. their  grassy  aisle 

Beside  him,  innocent  as  he, 
Companions  of  his  every  mood, 

The  dog  and  lamb  would  ever  be, 
In  sunny  field,  and  shady  wood. 


THE     LITTLE      BOTANIST.  75 

I've  seen  him  on  a  summer's  day, 

When  all  his  fellows  were  at  play, — 

Or  close  immured  in  District  School 

To  acquire  stupidity  by  rule, — 

Go  out  alone  with  thoughtful  mien, 

Far  off  beneath  the  leafy  screen, — 

While  all  the  feathered  Bards  of  June 

Poured  many  a  song  in  cheeriest  tune. 

Until  the  dizzy  air  would  swim 

Inebriate  with  their  bridal  hymn, 

As  Beauty's  Spirit,  young  and  warm, 

Was  wed  to  her  enamored  Form; 

And  there,  long  past  the  morning  hour. 

He  'd  wander  on  from  flower  to  flower, 

With  the  slow  step  which  comes  of  thought, 

And  the  calm  joy  reflection  brings,— 
Like  some  immortal  Bard  who  sought 

Communion  with  the  Soul  of  Things ; 
Half-seemed  it  that  his  musings  rare 
Played  visibly  around  him  there, 
As  over  his  serene  high  brow 
Light  quivered  through  the  quivering  bough. 

He  loved  all  Nature,  and  a  thrill 

Of  joy  would  fire  his  infant  blood. 
As  in  the  vale,  or  on  the  hill, 

He  read  the  life  of  leaf  and  bud  : 


76  THE    LITTLE    BOTANIST. 

And  to  each  shrub  and  plant  assigned 
Its  place  beside  its  brother  kind ; 
And  many  a  humble  plant  he  sought, 

Nor  scorned  the  humblest,  for  the  Boy 
Had  learned  of  Nature,  who  had  nought 

But  was  to  him  a  very  joy. 
There  was  no  flower,  of  field  or  grove, 
But  loved  to  bloom  for  him  to  love } 
And  they  would  almost  seem  to  give 

New  fragrance  at  his  passing  by, 
Glad  in  the  quiet  light  to  live, 

Of  his  love-beaming  eye. 

They  were  the  earliest  friends  he  knew — 
Those  bright-eyed  children  of  the  wood ; 
He  cherished  them  with  heart  as  true 

As  now,  even  in  his  babyhood. 
How  cunningly  he  would  peep  out, 
Himself  a  rose-bud,  from  his  bed, 
Among  the  flowers  which  garlanded 
His  cradle  round  about; 
They  seemed  his  little  sisters  then — 
Fair  sisters,  who  with  woven  arms 
Came  lovingly,  in  all  their  charms, 
To  kiss  him  o'er  and  o'er  again ; 
And  every  kiss  of  every  flower 
Would  lend  its  perfume  to  his  heart, 


THE    LITTLE    BOTANIST.  77 

And  in  their  sweet  breath,  hour  by  hour. 

Would  sweet  affections  start; 
For  lovely  things  have  ever  power 

A  kindred  loveliness  to  impart. 
So  grew  his  care  for  pleasant  plants 

Still  stronger,  with  his  daily  growth. 
Till  he  could  tread  their  native  haunts, 

And  then  he  would  go  out,  not  loth 
To  wander  far  alone,  and  roam 
Among  them  in  their  dewy  home : 
And  he  would  muse  among  the  fields 

Upon  the  many  things  he  found; 
With  what  sweet  will  the  young  grass  yields 
Its  fragrance,  though  by  careless  heels 

Crushed,  trodden  to  the  ground; 
How  even  the  smallest  drop  of  dew 
When  to  its  God,  the  Fire-orb,  true. 
Gives  back  a  spark  of  heavenly  flame — 
A  light  betraying  whence  it  came  ; 
How  blushingly  the  modest  Rose 

Receives  the  warm  kiss  of  the  sun  ; 
Or  with  what  sweet  dependence  grows 
The  £  gold-thread,'  where  the  streamlet  flows, 
Clinging  around  the  alders  there, 
And  waving  in  the  stirring  air, 
Like  a  bright  mesh  of  flaming  hair, 

Once  Berenice's  own  ; 


78  THE     LITTLE     BOTANIST. 

Or  bowing  by  the  quiet  rill — 

His  mirrored  form  before  him, — 
Learn  how  his  soul,  serene  and  still, 

May  catch  the  glory  brooding  o'er  him; 
And  when  the  winds  the  surface  rend 

And  bid  the  subtle  shapes  depart, 
See  how  the  blasts  of  passion  send 

Heaven's  beauty  from  the  troubled  heart. 

But  more  he  mused  on  leaf  and  herb 

And  knowledge  from  their  features  wrought, 
Far  off  where  nothing  might  disturb 

The  quiet  current  of  his  thought. 
He  felt  the  moral  of  the  spring, 

Unconscious  of  it  as  the  birds, 
And  glad  as  they  his  heart  would  sing, 

Though  it  should  never  flow  in  words. 
Each  little  flower  wreathed  a  Soul 

Which  fed  the  spirit  of  its  lover, 
And  softly  from  its  petals  stole 

Into  the  blue  eyes  bending  over: 
Slight  grace,  and  prideless  heroism, 

The  Anemone  his  Nature  lent, 
As  up  from  ruin's  blank  abysm 

She  led  the  young  Year's  armament : 
The  violets  from  their  own  blue  eyes 

Sent  strength  and  courage  to  be  lowly — 


THE     LITTLE     BOTANIST.  79 

Content  to  bathe  in  heavenly  dyes 

Tho>  weeds  outsoar'd  them  heav'n-ward  wholly  : 
Ears  up,  lips  parted,  form  erect. 

Straining  to  catch  the  faintest  lay 

Of  Zephyr  for  the  dying  May, 

The  wild-pinks  stood,  and  by  their  mien 
Bade  him,  with  sudden  impulse  checked, 
List  breathless,  as  he  did  expect 

Some  whisper  from  the  Great  Unseen  ! 
The  lily  with  its  odorous  breath, 

Pure,  floating  over  rank  decay, 
Like  a  white  spirit  o'er  the  death 
And  sin-slime  of  our  world,  who  hath 

Her  Angel-whiteness  kept  for  aye — 
Told  him  the  tale  it  uttereth 
To  all  whose  hearts  hear  what  it  saith, 

Sweet  lore  that  might  not  pass  away, 
Teaching  how  foulest  deeps  may  bring 
Into  sweet  life,  the  fairest  thing. 
And  all  the  flowers  that  meet  the  kiss 

Of  summer  winds,  or  summer  sun, 
Made  wise  his  open  heart,  for  this, 

That  he  did  love  them  every  one. 
He  loved  their  form  and  varied  hue, 
But  not  as  men  have  loved  a  bride — 
Whose  passion,  like  a  feeble  lamp, 
Is  quenched  in  every  passing  damp, 


80  THE     LITTLE     BOTANIST. 

To  her,  in  beauty,  seeming  true; 

But  when  the  first  flush  is  withdrawn, 

And  youth  and  buoyancy  are  gone, 

Then  coldly  casting  her  aside,— 
But  though  his  flowers  shrunk  away 
And  withered  with  a  pale  decay, 
His  earnest  heart  would  love  them  still, 

Aye,  deeper  than  before, 
As  if  a  portion  of  their  ill 

Its  gentle  nature  bore ; 
For  as  their  primal  loveliness 
Of  form  and  hue  grew  less  and  less, — 
As  to  a  brother  in  distress, — 

He  clung  to  them  the  more, 
And  wept  when  he  at  last  must  part 
With  what  so  well  had  cheered  his  heart. 

There  was  no  plant  beneath  his  tread 

That  he  would  pass  unheeding  by, 
He  knew  the  names  of  all,  and  read 
Their  features  with  unerring  eye ; 
For  Science  shed  into  his  mind 
The  beauty  ,of  her  light  refined, 
And  it  was  given  back  so  fair, 
It  seemed  a  radiant  nature  there. 

There  may  be  many  a  youthful  peer 
Of  his,  to  love  and  beauty  dear, 


THE     LITTLE     BOTANIST.  81 

But  other  such  I  have  not  seen, 
So  buoyant-hearted,  yet  serene, 
A  child  in  tender  years  so  green, 

Yet  ripe  in  pleasant  lore ; 
Full  many  a  taller  youth  I  ween, 
Would  bear  his  lamp  of  knowledge  dim 
Beside  the  clearer  light  of  him, 

Though  oft  replenished  o'er  and  o'er. 

Full  well  I  deem,  to  see  him  now, 

That  glory,  in  some  after  day 

His  search  for  wisdom  to  repay, 
Will  bind  the  laurel  on  his  brow, 
And  high  upon  the  enduring  scroll 
His  name  among  the  wise  enroll. 
Yet  Boy !  though  Fame  award  thee  nought, 

And  though  thy  morning  star  should  fail 

Before  thy  sun  has  pierced  its  veil, 
Yet,  for  the  lessons  thou  hast  taught 
Of  pure  love  that  despiseth  naught, 
And  of  the  power  and  joy  of  thought, 
We  cannot  deem  thy  race  as  one 
Which  left  a  noble  deed  undone  ! 
Such  love  as  thine  no  fame  shall  need, 
It  is  its  own  surpassing  meed, 
Though  summoned  now,  whatever  pain 

To  us  thy  going  Home  might  cost, 
8 


82  THE     LITTLE     BOTANIST. 

Thy  presence  has  not  been  in  vain, 

Or  thy  example  lost. 
There  is  no  soul,  which  walks  aright 

And  lives  in  Nature's  simple  truth, 
Though  in  the  weeds  of  Penury  dight, 

And  eke  the  form  of  earliest  youth, 
But  hath  its  mission  to  fulfil 

In  life,  or  deed  of  holy  birth, 
Which  works  unseen  the  Eternal  Will, 
As  work  the  dew-drops  on  the  hill 
From  heaven  gliding  soft  and  still, 

To  bless  and  purify  the  earth. 


MAN  AND  THE  YEARS. 

A     POEM      FOR      THE    NEW     YEAR 

SOLEMNLY,  oh  very  solemn, 
Rolling  on  in  deathward  column, 

March  the  heavy-laden  Years  j 
Each  his  won  crown  at  the  sundown. 

Yielding  sternly,  without  tears; 
Where  the  broken  mould  lies  dampest, 
Going  down  shroud-wrapt  in  tempest. 

Man  looks  on  the  fleeting  pageant. 
Pining,  moaning,  and  impatient, 

Silent  weeps,  or  curses  loud ; 
Smites  his  breast  in  mad  unresting — 

Hides  his  red  eyes  in  his  shroud; 
Thinking  that  the  Past  alone  hath 
Any  true  thing,  thus  he  moaneth  : 

" Heavy  Years!  what  Fate  pursues  you, 
That  ye  tread  on  thus,  to  lose  you 
In  the  dumb,  unmoving  murk, — 


8-4  MAN     AND     THE      YEARS. 

Hope's  torch  flaring  to  despairing, 
'Gainst  the  hand  it  lit  to  work, 
And  your  heaven-wings  unsufficing, 
Dark'ning  Earth,  but  never  rising? 

Ye  were  white  with  blooming  promise, 
When  your  withered  sires  went  from  us, — 

Tender-voiced  with  gentleness; 
And  the  storm-rise  from  your  calm  eyes 

Slunk  off,  moaning  in  distress, 
Till  a  hush  in  our  world-ferment, 
Made  men  hopeful  for  a  moment. 

But  ye  move  as  moved  your  fathers, 
With  a  wo  that,  snow-like,  gathers 

Icy  weight  in  rolling  on ; 
All  things  crushing  in  your  rushing 

To  the  sheer  cliff  of  the  Gone ! 
Down  ye  plunge,  but  leave  your  wo  back, 
Dark'ning  any  gleam  ye  throw  back. 

Where  is  Life,  and  where  the  music  ? 
Where  the  goal  the  earnest  True  seek — 

Pledged  of  you,  ye  lying  Years  ? 
Stout  Endeavor  wearies  ever; 

Death's  bow  softens  not  with  tears; 
Channels  of  a  present  sorrow 
Are  the  charnels  of  to-morrow. 


MAN      AND      THE      YEARS.  85 

Do  to  die,  and  know  to  suffer; 
World;s-hate  martyrs  the  world-lover; 

Hands  are  burned  that  snatch  from  fire, 
And  the  kindly  mar,  by  blindly 

Straining  our  faint  life-chords  higher  : 
Rude  hands,  carving  the  God-features, 
Roughen  them  to  their  rude  natures. 

Babel  overshadows  Zion; 
Discord  strikes  her  harp  of  iron, 

And  its  clang  shakes  down  the  Good  ; 
Falling  Bastiles  crush  the  castles 

That  for  Truth's  defences  stood; 
And  the  few  who  would  not  harm  her, 
Fall  beside  her  in  their  armor. 

Nathless  for  re-uttered  pledges, 

And  your  hopes  that  tinged  the  edges 

Of  our  doubts  with  rainbow  light, 
We  are  groping  down  the  sloping 

Grave-yard  path  in  stormy  night, 
Cheated  oft  to  think  the  glooms  done, 
When  our  fronts  but  smite  a  tomb-stone. 

Yea;  amid  the  sparkles  lighting 
The  red  anguish  of  such  smiting, 
We,  to  think  the  new  day  broke, 

8* 


86  MAN     AND      THE     YEARS. 

Cried  'Eureka!'  till  the  bleaker 

Scorn-blast  stung  us,  and  we  woke 
Woke  to  feel  how  deeply  under 
Fate  still  kept  the  folded  wonder. 

Veiled  friend  and  foe  together, 
On  we  ride^  we  know  not  whither, 

Errant  Knights  of  Destiny; 
In  tomb-darkness  and  the  starkness 

Of  large-eyed  Insanity, 
Driving,  each  a  mateless  rover — 

Pits  below  and  thunders  over. 

v 

Climbing  up  the  hill-side  crownward, 
Sinking  to  its  vale-bed  downward, 

Over  graves  we  toil  to  ours — 
Full  graves  sloping  to  the  open, — 

So  we  waste  our  vaunted  powers  j 
All  our  wisest  have  but  carried 
Grave-lamps  of  the  olden  buried. 

Bold  to  stab  the  dead-laid  Percy, 
But  loud  cowards  shrieking  'mercy' 

To  the  foot-braced,  living  foe; 
Faint  at  Pity's  far-off  ditties, 

Blind -mad  at  old  Pharaoh, 
But  at  home  oppression's  panders, 
Supple-kneed  to  base  commanders. 


MAN      AND      THE      YEARS.  87 

Or  if  we  would  pluck  the  darnel 
From  the  flowers  that  rim  our  charnel, 

Straight  they  droop,  their  roots  uptorn: 
All  our  worship  sinks  to  curship, 

Of  its  gracious  manhood  shorn ; 
It  were  better  than  this  groping, 
Nought  to  seek,  and  nothing  hoping ! 

Striving  to  undo  the  meshes 
Of  oppression's  coil  that  gashes 

Limb  and  soul  where'er  it  twines, 
We  are  strangling  in  the  tangling 

Of  the  steel  woofs  knotted  lines  ] 
Our  loud  prayers  from  all  these  strange  ills. 
Drown  the  answers  sweet  o'  the  Angels. 

Go,  ye  false  Years,  to  your  ruin, 
With  your  doing  and  undoing ; 

We  will  trust  your  lies  no  more; 
And  thou  last  of  Saturn's  cast  off 

Children,   fly  with  them  before : 
Sooner  shall  the  doom  hung  o'er  us 
Shiver  Life's  Phantasmagories !" 

So  from  all  his  wants  and  workings, 
Sorrows,  sins,  and  under-lurkings 
Of  divineness  and  high  aims, — 


88  MAN      ANDTHE      YEARS. 

Weak  but  willing,  unfulfiiling 

The  grand  sphere  his  being  claims, 
Man  profaned  the  Angel-Ages, 
Reading  but  their  darker  pages. 

Then  a  voice  serene  and  saintly 

From  the  Years  came,  clear,  but  faintly, 

Full  of  love-low  chimes  of  Hope  j 
Grew  its  murmur  deep  and  firmer, 

As  the  speech  took  larger  scope. 
And  from  Truths  by  Trial  yielded, 
To  the  Soul  a  Temple  builded. 

<{We  are  cloud-like  brief  and  passing, 
In  your  souls  our  image  glassing, 

That  are  dark  or  bright  as  we  ; 
But  around  is  calm  and  boundless 

The  sky-broad  Eternity — 
We  are  changing,  mute  or  thundrous. 
That  is  fathomless  and  wondrous. 

Now  we  rain  down  want  and  sorrow, 
Now  from  Kingly  Orbs  we  borrow 

Light  to  make  our  dun  sides  laugh ; 
Through  all  ranges  of  our  changes 

Runneth  still  God's  hierograph, — 
Still  He  keeps,  like  kindly  fathers, 
Yule-gifts  till  the  darkness  gathers. 


MAN       AND     THE      YEARS.  89 

Life,  that  bounds  from  God's  heart-pulses 
Is  the  sole  Fate  that  convulses 

And  pursues  our  heavy  flight — 
Everlasting  Newness,  casting 

The  old  glory  into  night — 
And  the  Perfect  struggling  birthward, 
Through  the  dead  past  trodden  earthward. 

Spirit  only  is  eternal, 

Forms  have  autumn-days  and  vernal — 

Have  their  beauty  and  decay, 
But  their  trueness  feeds  the  Newness, 

With  the  leaven  of  Life's  For-aye ; 
Blossoms  grow  to  seed-burs  rougher, 
That  the  in-life  shall  not  suffer. 

Mounded  graves  and  piled  up  sorrows 
Shed  no  darkness  on  your  morrows, 

They  but  veil  the  setting  hope, 
That  the  orient,  with  more  floreant 

Beauty,  its  dawn-gates  may  ope; 
While  you  climb  their  steeps  before  you 
Heaven  shuts  down  yet  closelier  o'er  you. 

We  are  bearing  forth  on  broad  wings, 
Sin's  unrest  and  Truth's  rewardings, 
And  the  doom  that  cannot  fail — 


90  MAN     AND     THE     YEARS. 

As  ye  make  them  ye  shall  take  them, 

Or  in  dew,  or  smiting  hail  ; 
What  ye  planted  ye  must  gather, 
Grapes  or  thorns  it  boots  not  whether. 

Would  ye  be  as  rocks,  and  pangless? 
Were  the  serpent  Wisdom  fangless, 

It  would  die  among  brute  hoofs; 
Steps  to  Heaven  are  fire-paven, 

Stinging  you  with  hot  reproofs 
For  your  lingering: — up! — awaken! 
God  is  fleet  and  would  be  taken. 

Life  is  in  you,  life  is  of  you, 

But  its  fountain  springs  above  you, 

Pressing  on  your  shut  hearts'  will; 
Fling  them  open  'neath  the  sloping 

Heavens,  and — ye  shall  have  your  fill : 
Now  it  rains  off  to  uncleanness, 
From  the  low  eaves  of  your  meanness ; 

But  may  not  be  lost  for  ever; 
Growing  to  a  crystal  river, 

Earth  shall  gladden  in  its  flow, 
And  the  goodness  by  your  rudeness 

Spurned,  shall  bless  the  vales  below; 
Martyred  Saviors  of  a  nation 
Bring  the  world's  regeneration. 


MAN     AND     THE     YEARS.  91 

Ye  are  in  the  Babel  noises, 

And  know  not  how  all  your  voices 

Fold  their  roughness,  tone  on  tone, 
Into  sweetness,  whose  completeness 

Is  a  Psalm  before  the  Throne; 
Hurl  your  works  at  wildest  venture, 
God  shall  sphere  them  round  the  center. 

Not  in  us,  but  bowed  above  us, 
Is  the  Heaven  of  Virtue's  lovers — 

The  Eternity  of  calm, 
To  which  queenly  Souls,  serenely 

Rising,  press  with  free  foot-palm 
On  our  white  tops  sunward  bending, — 
Night-black  to  the  unascending. 

Valor  spends  its  prurient  vigor 
Battling  Evil's  phantom  figure, 

Till  it  wearies  in  the  Dark; 
When  if  it  will  mount  a  little, 

Through  the  shadows  grim  and  stark, 
They  will  vanish  to  their  sheer  night,1 
In  a  higher  faith's  severe  light. 

Down  from  God  your  life-light  blazes, 
Parted  in  our  earth-sprung  hazes, 
Many-hued  and  dimly  seen, 


92  MAN     AND     THE     YEARS. 

Yet  it  streams  on,  blue  and  crimson. 

Violet,  yellow,  red  and  green  j 
Each  his  one  ray  deems  the  sole  star,- 
Drifting  Earth's  unchanging  pole-star. 

But  of  all  your  beams  diversal, 
Angels,  rapt  in  sweet  rehearsal 

Of  sweet  music,  yet  can  see 
Bending  arc-wise  o'er  your  dark  skies 

A  grand  Bow  stretched  gloriously, 
Promise,  amid  this  Hope's  setting, 
Of  a  new  dawn,  storm-forgetting. 

Let  us  pass  unblamed,  0  mortals ! 
Since  we  bear  you  to  the  portals 

Of  a  more  majestic  Doom. 
What  ye  cherish,  if  it  perish, 

>Tis  to  give  your  God  the  room ; 
Treasures  to  the  storm-waves  given, 
Leave  the  bark  to  float  unriven. 

Let  us  pass  unblamed,  0  mortals ! 
We  will  bear  you  to  the  portals 

Of  the  Heaven  by  Prophets  seen; 
While  the  far  lyres  of  the  star-choirs 

Shall  feel  Earth's   strike  in  between, 
Fluttering  the  deep  sky's  blue  banner 
With  her  rapturous  Hosanna!" 


MAN     AND     THE     YEARS.  93 

Roll  along  ye  Years  that  waft  us 
To  the  boon  of  all  Hereafters, 

Roll  along  unblamed  of  man ; 
O'er  the  tomb-stones  of  your  doomed  ones 

We  will  mount  to  greet  the  van 
Of  the  immortal  Years  that  bring  us 
Heaven  to  Earth,  or  Heaven-ward  wing  us. 


AUTUMN  HYMN. 

WARRiOR-winds  have  swept  the  withered  leaves 
From  the  hill-side,  and  the  valleys  green : 

By  close  thickets,  and  beneath  the  eaves 
Of  the  jutty  rocks,  their  heaps  are  seen. 

Pale  and  yellow  from  their  brittle  stems, 
Fell  the  Currant  leaves,  beside  the  wall, 

So  revealing  the  red  coral  gems 
On  the  forehead  of  the  coming  Fall. 

Then  the  Aspen's  trembling  with  death's  fear, 
All  the  summer  long,  sunk  down  in  death, 

Sighing  momently  above  their  bier, 

Then  whirl' d  off  in  Autumn's  growing  breath. 

Fell  the  Birch  leaves  from  the  slender  spray; 

Hangs  the  tassel'd  promise  of  the  spring, 
Like  the  hopes  that  cling  to  our  decay 

When  the  death-winds  through  our  strip'd  boughf 
sing. 


AUTUMN   HYMN.  95 

Kindling  fire-like  at  the  touch  of  frost. 
Died  the  Maple  blushing  as  at  birth; 

So  the  old  die,  who  have  never  lost 

Childhood's  young  flush  in  the  dust  of  earth. 

So,  awakened  by  Life's  winter-breath, 

Bums  the  pure  flame,  dim'd  in  summer's    air, 

In  the  heart  nigh  withered  unto  death — 

Love's  fire  check'd  by  Fortune's  sultry  glare. 

Treasures  shower'd  from  the  chesnut  burs 

Which  stung  once  the  ringers  that  would  gripe, 

So  all  Nature's  own  philosophers 
Teach  a  waiting  till  the  fruit  be  ripe. 

Sad  as  death's  hope  in  a  life's  despair, 

Cling  the  withered  Oak-leaves  to  their  bough, 

Not  so  mournful  seem  the  wholly  bare, 

As  the  blighted  pride  which  keeps  them  now ; 

Green  as  life's  hope  in  the  hour  of  death, 
Stands  the  Holly,  never  bow'd  or  nip'd, 

Lovelier  shows  it  now,  as  human  faith 
Seems  more  seemly  illy  fellowship'd. 

Pine  and  Cedar  and  the  Hemlock's  cone, 

Green  cathedrals  of  their  thick  boughs  make, 

Where  the  weak  winds,  faint  with  wandering,  moan 
Funeral  hymnings  for  the  old  year's  sake. 


96  AUTUMN    HYMN. 

And  a  dull  haze  builds  up  all  the  sky 
To  a  grave  vault  for  the  seasons  dead. 

Over  whom  the  big  sun  swingeth  high, 
An  eternal  tomb-lamp  round  and  red. 


WORSHIP. 

BEAUTIFUL  ever  is  a  holy  Thought. 

Though  in  the  soul  polluted  and  unchaste. 

Like  a  white  lily  blooming  o'er  the  waste 
Of  dank  decay.  It  springeth  forth  untaught. 
A  pure  spontaneous  sense  of  Worship,  wrought 

By  God's  own  Spirit,  on  the  uneffaced 

Divinity  of  Soul;  a  sweet  foretaste 
Of  life's  deep  fullness,  by  all  prophets  sought. 
It  lives,  a  joy  amid  a  world  of  wo. — 

A  beam  of  sunlight  on  a  stormy  sky. — 
A  seraph  gliding  amid  fiends  below, 

That  quail  and  cower  beneath  her  loveful  eye 
Like  a  child-seer  it 'doth  serenely  go, 

With  prideless  port  of  simple  majesty. 

When  in  our  spirit  springs  new  reverence 
Of  divine  Beauty,  shaming  all  the  great, 

And  good,  and  holy,  of  our  first  estate. 
9* 


98  WORSHIP. 

Clad  in  meet  symbols  to  the  outward  sense 
It  goeth  forth,  in  the  omnipotence 

Of  artless  Truth,  new  Beauty  to  create ; 

Hence  boweth  Prayer,  knee -bent  beneath  the  weight 
Of  its  most  earnest  aspirations, — hence 

The  Hermon-dew  of  Baptism,  showering  soft 

As  divine  Mercy  on  the  sin-parched  heart, — 
Thus  bread,  and  the  vine's  fruitage  bring  their  oft 

Memorial  of  His  Life,  henceforth  a  part 
Of  our  life's  daily  bread,  that  draws  forever 

Our  infinite  hunger,  to  the  Infinite  Giver. 

Holiest  of  Symbols  stands  the  awful  Cross; 

Type  of  the  hero-spirit's  martyr-deeds, 

When  with  the  sweat  of  agony  it  bleeds 
Over  slain  Hopes,  and  Pleasure's  utmost  loss, 
AndjDure  Love's  boon  flung  back  with  scornful  toss. — 

Yet  never  shrinking  from  the  cause  it  pleads. 

Even  when  the  wrung,  forsaken  spirit  feeds 
On  disappointments  keener  than  remorse. 
Whatever  kind  heart,  sick  at  human  wrongs, 

Casts  all  its  treasure,  claiming  no  exemption, 

Into  the  great  price  of  the  world's  redemption. 
To  it,  to  such,  that  hallowed  Sign  belongs  ] 

Though  oft  profaned,  it  fronts  contending  vans, 
Where  creed  on  creed  pours  down  its  warring  parti 
sans. 


WORSHIP.  99 

Even  as  the  viewless  Soul  of  Beauty  decks 
Itself  in  flowers,  with  each  returning  spring 
Our  holy  Thought  puts  on  its  blossoming 

Of  visible  forms,  made  richer  by  the  wrecks 

Of  all  the  past,  as  the  old  greenness  makes 
The  new  more  verdant.    An  eternal  thing, 
It  lives  unaltered  through  the  perishing 

Of  leaf-like  symbols,  and  forever  takes 

A  lovelier  vesture  at  the  sweet  upgrowth 
Of  its  spring  newness,  more  and  more  divine, 

Pure  and  ethereal,  as  its  own  life  doth 

In  Heaven's  sunlight  grow  more  crystalline  : 

And  never  lives  a  kingly  Soul  but   loathes 
To  cloak  his  breathing  Thought  in  his  dead  father's 
clothes. 

Shall  the  new  corn  put  on  the  old  ear's  husk  ? 
The  withered  foliage  clothe  the  budding  spring  '(• 
The  healed  cripple  to  his  crutches  cling? 

Or  day  forever  wear  its  morning  dusk? 

Eternal  Life  still  works  eternal  change : 
If  thou  wouldst  nourish  an  abiding  thing, 
Make  the  Great  Past  thy  servant,  not  thy  king, 

And  be  thy  field  the  Present's  boundless  range : 

God  is  not  perished,  that  we  need  look  back 
To  his  dim  steps  on  Being's  wave-worn  shore, 


100  WORSHIP. 

Nor  walk  our  spirits  with  so  huge  a  lack. 

That  we  must  beg  what  eldest  Ages  wore, 
And  load  our  young  Thought  with  the  iron  shirt 
By  bigots  raked  from  some  Judean  grave-yard's  dirt! 

Let  every  spirit  bend  before  the  shrine 
Of  its  own  God, — seen  in  the  wonder-zone 
Of  its  miraculous  life,  that  keeps  alone 

The  sure  God-records3  written  line  by  line 

In  its  expanding  being :  it  is  thine 

To  scatter  Wisdom,  not  Belief;  to  give 

Bread,  not  Digestion,  that  thy  kind  may  live, — 

Even  the  <c  True  Bread"  of  a  Life  Divine. 

Free  as  ascending  mists,  that  on  the  air 

Fashion  all  beautiful  shapes,  from  spirit-deeps 

Goes  up  spontaneously  the  soul  of  Prayer, 
As,  blazing  sun-like,  Trust  immortal  keeps 

Its  high  path  o'er  the  world  of  thought  and  sense. 

Light  of  our  souls,  and  life  of  all  our  Reverence. 

All  things  grow  holy  to  the  holy  soul, 

Time  and  the  place  wherein  its  blessed  deeds 
Are   borne,  and  love-sown  thoughts  spring  up,   the 
seeds 

Of  after  blessings.     From  the  utmost  pole 

To  its  far  fellow,  arches  o'er  the  whole 


WORSHIP.  101 

One  temple-dome  of  Love;  wherein  she  leads 

Perpetual  Worship,  though  no  victim  bleeds 
And  burns  for  Superstition's  hungry  ghoule. 
Day  after  day,  hallowed  by  generous  toil, 

Leads  in  perpetual  dance  its  Sabbath  hours; 
Bowed  o'er  the  bench,  or  kneeling  on  the  soil, 

He  worships  best  who  best  bestows  his  powers; 
And  never  yet  a  deed  was  done  for  love 
Of  God  or  man,  but  't  rose  a  holy  thing  above. 


THE  POND  LILY.— (Nymphea  odorata.) 

NYMPH,  that  floatest  on  the  waters 

Queenly  as  a  swan, 
Purest  of  the  Summer's  daughters, 
From  whose  heart  have  zephyrs  brought  us 
All  thy  ordorous  benison; — 
Stooping  on  the  brim 

Of  thy  blue-eyed  pool, 

Let  me  see  thy  broad  leaves  swim 

In  the  wavelets  cool. 

When  the  morn,  from  .twilight's  budding, 

Bloometh  like  a  rose, 
All  the  clouds  with  glory  flooding, 
And  the  stars,  heaven's  azure  studding, 
Shed  their  beauty  as  it  grows, — 
Thou  art  folded  up 

In  thy  vest  of  green, 
From  thy  gold  and  pearly  cup 
Pouring  sweets  unseen. 


THEPONDLILY.  103 

Soon  as  any  sunny  glimmer 

Strikes  the  level  blue, 
And  the  shadows,  dim  and  dimmer, 
Melt  before  the  delicate  shimmer 
Of  each  pure  and  glowing  hue, 
At  the  earliest  kiss 

Of  the  softest  ray, 
All  thy  deep  heart's  smlessness; 
Opens  to  the  day. 

When  the  golden  hour  is  fading 

In  the  blushing  west, 
Winds,  like  honey-bees  come  laden — 
Like  a  lover  from  his  maiden, 

With  the  sweet  wealth  of  thy  breast ; 
And  the  wavelets  twine 

Their  pure  arms  around 
That  delightful  form  of  thine, 
With  a  low,  soft  sound. 
Kneeling  here;  beneath  the  willow 

On  the  water's  marge, 
Where  the  twinkling  mimic  billow 
Rocks  thee,  on  thy  liquid  pillow, 
Like  a  white- sail'd  Indian  barge 
With  its  spicy  freight- 
Let  me  lay  one  kiss, 
Lighter  than  the  dew-drop's  weight, 
On  thy  heart  of  bliss. 


104  THE    POND    LILY. 

I  would  be  thy  spirit-sister  ; 

In  my  calm  thought's  deep, 
Pure  and  sweet,  the  sole  exister, 
Glimpse-view'd  through  the  woody  vista — 
Where  old  truths,  like  oak-trees,  keep 
Their  high  shield  above  ; 

There  to  grow,  and  float, 
In  the  soothing  breath  of  love — 
Silent  and  remote. 

When  the  rays  of  glory,  beaming 

From  the  warm  life-sun, 
Come  through  mournful  shadows  streaming- 
So  for  Beauty's  choir  redeeming 
Secret  sorrow's  veiled  Nun, 
I  would  bare,  like  thee, 

All  my  deep  heart's-core, 
While  low-breathing  poesy 

Steals  its  honied  lore. 
Then,  when  fades  the  mortal  even, 

Dying  in  the  west, 
I  would,  every  wind  of  heaven 
Might  be  fill'd  with  odors,  given 

From  the  love-blooms  of  my  breast ; 
While  the  swelling  deep 

Of  serenest  thought, 
Rocks  me  to  a  fragrant  sleep 

Dream-refreshed  and  short. 


DORA. 

IN  her  chamber  musing  stilly. 
While  the  eve  lay  soft  and  mute 

On  the  hills,  and  clouds  as  hilly — 
List'ning  but  the  insect's  flute 

With  a  humming  music  coming 

Mingled  with  the  wood-tick's  drumming, 
And  the  leaf- strung  zephyr's  lute — 

Dora  sat  j  in  thought  revolving 
All  the  things  of  Wonder-land  ; 

Dream  to  fainter  dream  dissolving, 
Fixless  as  the  silver  sand 

Through  the  clipping  fingers  slipping, 

Fairy  after  fairy  tripping 
Fast  away,  a  fleeting  band. 

Came  the  witching  tales  of  Magic 

Thickly  sown  in  childhood's  earth, 
Marvels  beautiful  and  tragic, 

Piercing  the  thin  mask  of  mirth 
10 


106  DORA. 

Deeply  under  to  the  wonder, 
Whose  intense  aim  for  the  Yonder 
Seeks  the  pole-star  of  our  birth. 

Came  the  tale  of  Cinderella, 

Once  which  bade  us  not  despond, 

As  the  pride  which  could  not  quell  her 
Bowed  before  that  potent  wand; 

And  to  sadden,  thrill  and  gladden, 

Woke  the  story  of  Aladdin, 
Oft  in  dim-eyed  halos  con'd. 

Heaved  the  jars  of  AH  Baba 

With  their  monstrous  birth  of  men, 

Sweat  the  demons  at  their  labor, 
In  enchanted  cave  and  den ; 

And  the  cunning,  errand  running, 

Nimble  Ariel  rose,  sunning 
His  quick  wing  in  day  again. 

Lovely  as  the  Morning's  pean, 
When  its  song  greets  ear  and  eye, 

From  her  pearl-grot  in  the  Egean 
Rose  that  child  of  Phantasy, 

Undine,  daughter  of  the  water, 

With  the  sweet  soul,  Love  had  brought  her, 
Sad  with  Immortality. 


DORA.  107 

Faint,  uncertain,  dim  and  dimmer, 

Throngs  of  kindred  beings  past. 
Fleet  and  thrilling  as  the  glimmer, 

When  the  hearth-fire  sobs  its  last, 
With  a  mutter  and  low  flutter, 
Which  makes  silence  felt,  and  utter 

Darkness  tremulous  and  aghast! 

Onward  swept  the  wondrous  pageant, 

But  a  childish  prayer  was  left 
For  some  strange,  mysterious  agent, 

With  light  van  and  fingers  deft, 
So  to  serve  her  and  re-nerve  her 
When  the  hand  of  care  would  swerve  her; 

Guarding  still  her  being's  weft. 

For  these  many-hued  Auroras 

Lit  all  visions  of  her  eye, 
And  her  thoughts  were  dove-white  soarers 

In  a  vermil-tinctured  sky, 
Where  were  merging  girlhood's  virgin 
Love-dreams,  with  the  calm,  unsurging 

Blue  of  aspirations  high. . 

"  Winged  sprite  or  limber  fairy, 

Genii  mild  or  gentle  Gnome, 
Beings  slender-armed  and  airy, 

Nymphs  who  make  your  veiled  home 


108  DORA. 

In  the  amber-curtained  chamber 
Of  a  Rose,  or  sporting,  clamber 
O'er  the  nodding  Blue-bell's  dome; 

"Come!"  she  whispered,  like  a  whisper 
Of  the  Zephyr  which  would  make 

Not  a  wrinkled  wavelet  crisper, 
On  the  starred  and  moony  lake, 

"  Come,  0  queen-eyed  Nymphs,  and  keen-eyed 

Fairies,  from  my  Love  serene-eyed, 
With  a  gift  for  Love's  dear  sake. 

"  From  my  young  heart's  one  companion 

Mated  with  its  earliest  love, 
Life-trunk  of  affection's  banian, 

Center  of  its  pillared  grove, 
Mid  the  gleaming  light  of  dreaming 
Fancies  through  its  green  roof  streaming, 

Rooted  never  more  to  rove. 

"Bird  or  Bee  or  bonny  Budling — 

Take  the  form  befitting  best, 
To  the  eager  Love-babes,  huddling 

Round  the  hearth-fire  of  my  breast, 
Bring  unstinted  treasures,  minted 
In  his  rich  heart,  and  imprinted 

With  his  image,  beauty-blest. 


DORA.  109 

"Spirits  strong,  of  piercing  vision, 
And  great  wings,  the  sky  to  dare, 

Waft  me  to  some  realms  Elysian 
O'er  our  cloud-encumbered  air, 

Where  the  Force  is,  that  divorces 

Doubt  and  hope,  our  joys  and  curses, 
Love's  delight  and  Love's  despair." 

Then  a  dream  came  down  on  Dora, 

Such  as  veils  the  outward  eye, 
And  a  wide  wing  stooped  before  her, 

Grand  with  Sunset's  Alchemy ; 
Giant-sinewed  far  it  winnowed — 
Far  as  the  round  world  continued — 

Rock  and  hill  and  glowing  sky. 

And  the  old  crags,  unconvulsing, 

Melted  from  their  dull  opaque, 
Till  she  saw  their  slow  life-pulsing — 

Throbs  which  human  ages  make — 
How  each  one  adds  to  its  monads. 
Spark  on  spark,  until  a  sun  glads 

Heaven,  and  man  leaps  forth  awake. 

Saw  how  every  atom  wheeleth 

To  its  own  by  sure  decree, 
How  the  Heart  of  all  things  feeleth 

Wants  of  each  eternally  j 
10* 


110  DORA. 

Saw  the  sources  of  the  Forces 
Which  whirl  Nature  down  its  courses 
In  vast  life  and  harmony  ! 

All  the  clouds  of  all  the  sorrows 

Which  have  swelled  life's  thunder-gust. 

All  the  hopes  which  ere  their  morrows 
Drooped  and  dwindled  into  dust, 

Pure  and  sky-bright  from  the  twilight 

Rose  before  the  glorious  eye-light 
Of  that  broad-winged  Angel — TRUST. 

Wildest  dreams  of  wild  romances 
Shoot  their  arrows  of  desire, 

Impotent,  from  faint  strung  fancies, 
Toward  that  everlasting  Higher, 

Where,  uplifted,  softly  drifted 

The  serene  soul  of  that  gifted 
Maiden,  Love -taught  to  aspire. 

Arched  a  rainbow  o'er  the  Sphynx's 
Smiling  front  and  cloudy  trail, 

And  the  mystic  tie  which  links  us 
To  the  Life  beyond  the  Pale, 

Down  the  hueless  chain,  sent  viewless 

Thrills  of  prescience,  till  the  mewless 
Soul  half  rent  the  eternal  veil. 


DORA.  Ill 

Then  she  knew  that  Life  is  onward 
Ever,  though  its  hopes  should  die ; 

That  the  darkest  orbs  wheel  sunward 
To  a  grand  Eternity ; 

Knew  by  seeing,  Life  is  BE-ing, 

Will  and  work  in  one  agreeing, 
And  high  Trust  is  augury. 

Soon  the  wing-beat  fan'd  these  sparkles 

Of  dim  truth  to  waves  of  light, 
Driven  in  wide  concentric  circles, 

Pulsing  to  the  Infinite; 
Time  and  error,  hope  and  terror, 
And  the  cloud-built  Doubt's  sierra 

Faded  from  their  noiseless  flight. 

Then  it  seemed,  to  tranced  Dora, 
That  her  loved-one's  radiant  soul 

Was  the  central  light  before  her, 
Round  which  swept,  as  planets  roll, 

Every  creature,  Man  and  Nature, 

Star  and  Flower,  new  love  to  teach  her — 
Love  that,  widening,  clasped  the  whole. 

Inward,  thrilling  to  the  center, 
Outward,  to  the  shores  of  Dream, 

Did  one  living  spirit  enter — 

Inward  glow  and  outward  gleam, 


112  DORA. 

Re-creating,  renovating 
Life  from  loss,  and  permeating 
All  the  sphere  to  Thought's  extreme. 

Beauty  stooped  and  kissed  the  Lowly, 
Earth  with  starry  sisters  ran, 

Heaven  sloped  down  its  peerless  glory- 
Level  to  the  foot  of  man, 

While  the  glancing  feet,  of  dancing 

Spirits  hand  in  hand  advancing, 
Passed  as  far  as  vision  can. 

Soon,  her  startled  lids  upheaving, 
Her  dark  eyes  a  moment  strove, 

From  the  light  within,  unweaving 
Beams  from  azure  eyes  above ; — 

One  before  her,  bending  o'er  her, 

Taught  the  waking  soul  of  Dora, 
Life's  true  wizardry  is  Love. 


THE  LESSON. 

THERE  was  a  little  Rose-bush,  where  the  brook  flows, 
With  two  little  rose-buds  and  one  full  rose, 
The  breath  of  their  spirits  shed  forth  sweet  smell. 
That  filled  like  a  melody  the  air  of  the  dell. 

When  the  sun  went  down  to  his  bed  in  the  west, 
The  little  Buds  leaned  on  the  Rose-mother's  breast, 
And  the  mother  and  the  sisters;  all  night  long, 
Looked  up  to  the  heavens  and  their  far  bright  throng, 
And  silently,  in  odors,  they  communed  with  each  other, 
Bent  lovingly  and  meek  on  the  bosom  of  their  mother. 

"  0  mother  !"  said  the  little  one,  with  pouting  red  lips. 
"I  would    that  the  Dew-fay  that  o'er  the  mead  trips, 
Would  bring  me  a  Star  when  the  day  comes  dim. 
And  God  does'nt  need  them  to  burn  round  Him.'"' 

Just  then  a  tiny  dew-drop,  that  hung  o'er  the  dell, 
In  the  heart  of  the  Bud  like  a  star-beam  fell; 
But  impatiently  she  flung  it  away  from  her  leaf, 
And  it  fell  on  the  mother  like  the  tear  of  its  grief  ; 


114  THE    LESSON. 

While  she  to  her  bosom  with  scornful  pride, 
Folded  a  Fire-fly  that  came  by  her  side. 

"Heed!"  said  the  Mother-rose,  "Budling  mine! 
Reach  not  forth  for  the  good  not  thine  j 
Nothing  is  thine  which  makes  not  thee, 
All  other  gain  thy  loss  shall  be." 

The  poor  little  bud  with  a  deadlier  hug, 
Maugre  the  mother's  words,  clung  to  the  Bug, 
Till  the  straggling  insect  tore  the  vest 
Of  purple  and  green  which  veiled  her  breast. 

The  morn  came  up,  and  she  noted  with  grief 
The  blooming  of  her  sister-bud,  leaf  by  leaf, 
As  the  cold  dew  mingled  with  all  her  heart, 
And  grew  of  her  beauty  and  life  a  part  j 
While  she,  as  fair  and  sweet  at  first, 
Hung  her  head  all  faint  with  wounding  and  thirst. 

Bright  grew  the  sunshine ;  poor  little  Bud ! 
How  drooped  her  form  with  its  languid  blood, 
Till  from  the  mother's  heart,  where  it  lay  hid, 
Into  her  own  the  dew-drop  slid. 

Night  came  back — the  fire-flies  flew, 

But  she  let  them  pass,  and  drank  of  the  dew. 


MOTHER  MARGARY. 

ON  a  bleak  ridge  from  whose  granite  edges 

Sloped  the  rough  land  to  the  grizzly  North, 
And  where  hemlocks,  clinging  to  the  ledges, 

Like  a  thin'd  banditti  straggled  forth ; 
In  a  crouching,  wormy-timbered  hamlet. 

Mother  Margary  shivered  in  the  cold, 
With  a  tattered  robe  of  faded  camlet 

On  her  shoulders,  crooked,  weak  and  old. 

Time  on  her  had  done  his  cruel  pleasure, 

For  her  face  was  very  dry  and  thin, 
And  the  records  of  his  growing  measure 

Lined  and  cross-lined  all  her  shrivelled  skin. 
Scanty  goods  to  her  had  been  allotted, 

Yet  her  thanks  rose  oftener  than  Desire, 
While  her  bony  fingers,  bent  and  knotted, 

Fed  with  withered  twigs  the  dying  fire. 


116  MOTHER      MARGA.RY. 

Raw  and  dreary  were  the  northern  winters, 

Winds  howled  pitiless  around  her  cot, 
Or  with  long  sighs  made  the  jarring  splinters 

Moan  the  misery  she  bemoaned  not. 
Drifting  tempests  rattled  at  her  windows, 

And  hung  snow-wreaths  round  her  naked  bed, 
While  the  wind  flaws  muttered  o'er  the  cinders, 

Till  the  last  spark  struggled  and  was  dead. 

Life  had  fresher  hopes  when  she  was  younger, 

But  their  dying  wrung  out  no  complaints, 
Cold,  and  Penury,  and  Neglect,  and  Hunger, 

These  to  Margary  were  guardian  saints. 
Of  the  pearls  which  one  time  were  the  stamens 

'Neath  the  pouting  petals  of  her  lips, 
Only  four  stood  yet,  like  swarthy  Brahmins 

Penance-parted  from  all  fellowships; 

And  their  chatter  told  the  bead-roll  dismal 

Of  her  grim  saints,  as  she  sat  alone, 
While  the  tomb-path  opened  down  abysmal, — 

Yet  the  sunlight  through  its  portal  shone. 
When  she  sat,  her  head  was  prayer-like  bending, 

When  she  rose,  it  rose  not  any  more, — 
Faster  seemed  her  true  heart,  graveward  tending, 

Than  her  tired  feet,  weak  and  travel-sore. 


MOTHER      MARGARY.  117 

She  was  mother  of  the  dead  and  scattered, — 

Had  been  mother  of  the  brave  and  fair, — 
But  her  branches,  bough  by  bough,  were  shattered, 

Till  her  torn  heart  was  left  dry  and  bare. 
Yet  she  knew, — though  sorely  desolated, — 

When  the  children  of  the  Poor  depart, 
Their  earth-vestures  are  but  sublimated, 

So  to  gather  closer  in  the  heart. 

With  a  courage  which  had  never  fitted 

Words  to  speak  it  to  the  soul  it  blest, 
She  endured,  in  silence  and  unpitied, 

Woes  enough  to  mar  a  stouter  breast. 
There  was  bom  such  holy  Trust  within  her 

That  the  graves  of  all  who  had  been  dear, 
To  a  region  clearer  and  serener 

Raised  her  spirit  from  our  chilly  sphere. 

They  were  footsteps  on  her  Jacob's  ladder; 

Angels  to  her  were  the  Loves  and  Hopes 
Which  had  left  her  purified  but  sadder,  — 

And  they  lured  her  to  the  emerald  slopes 
Of  that  Heaven  where  anguish  never  flashes 

Her  red  fire-whip,  happy  land  whose  flowers 
Blossom  over  the  volcanic  ashes 

Of  this  blighted,  blighting  world  of  ours. 

11 


118  MOTHER      MARGARY. 

All  her  power  was  a  love  of  Goodness, 

All  her  wisdom  was  a  mystic  faith 
That  the  rough  world's  jargoning  and  rudeness 

Turn  to  music  at  the  gate  of  death. 
So  she  walked  while  feeble  limbs  allowed  her, 

Knowing  well  that  any  stubborn  grief 
She  might  meet  with,  could  no  more  than  crowd  her 

To  the  wall  whose  opening  was  Relief. 

So  she  lived  an  anchoress  of  Sorrow, 

Lone  and  peaceful  on  the  rocky  slope, 
And,  when  burning  trials  came,  would  borrow 

New  fire  of  them  for  the  lamp  of  Hope. 
When  at  last  her  palsied  hand,  in  groping, 

Rattled  tremulous  at  the  gated  tomb, 
Heaven  flashed  round  her  joys   beyond  her  hoping, 

And  her  young  soul  gladdened  into  bloom. 


SPIRIT   LOVE. 

I  WILL  love  thee  as  the  Flowers  love, 

That  in  the  summer  weather. 
Each  standing  in  its  own  place 

Lean  rosy  lips  together. 
And  pour  their  sweet  confession 

Through  a  petal's  bended  palm, 
With  a  breath  that  only  deepens 

The  azure-lidded  calm 
Of  the  heavens  bending  o'er  them, 
And  the  Blue  Bells  hung 'before  them. 
All  whose  odor  in  the  silence  is  a  psalm. 

I  will  love  thee  as  the  Dews  love, 

In  chambers  of  a  Lily, 
Hung  orb-like  and  unmeeting,?— 

With  their  flashes  blending  stilly, — 
By  the  white  shield  of  the  petals 

Held  a  little  way  apart; 
While  all  the  air  is  sweeter 

For  the  yearning  of  each  heart, — 


120  SPIRIT     LOVE. 

That  yet  keep  clear  and  crystal, 
Their  globed  spheres  celestial, 
While  to  and  fro  their  glimmers  ever  dart. 

I  will  love  thee  as  the  Stars  love, 

In  sanctity  enfolden, 
That  tune  in  constellations 

Their  harps  divine  and  golden, 
Across  the  heavens  greeting 
Their  sisters  from  afar — 
The  Pleiades  to  Mazzaroth, 

Star  answering  to  star; 
With  a  love  as  high  and  holy 
And  apart  from  all  the  lowly — 
Swaying  to  thee  like  the  planets  without  jar. 

I  will  love  thee  as  the  Spirits  love, 

Who,  free  of  Earth  and  Heaven, 
Wreathe  white  and  pale-blue  flowers 

For  the  brows  of  the  Forgiven, 
And  are  dear  to  one  another 

For  the  blessings  they  bestow 
On  the  weary  and  the  wasted 

In  our  wilderness  of  wo; 
By  thy  good  name  with  the  Angels. 
And  thy  human  heart's  Evangels, 
Shall  my  love  from  holy  silence  to  thee  go. 


SPIRIT  MARRIAGE. 

I  WILL  love  Thee  as  the  Cloud  loves — 

The  soft  cloud  of  the  Summer; 
That  winds  its  pearly  arms  round 

The  rosy-tinted  comer, 
Intenvreathing  till  but  one  cloud 

Hangs  dove-like  in  the  blue, 
And  throws  no  shadow  earthward. 

But  only  nectar  dew 
For  the  roses  blushing  under. 
And,  purified  from  thunder, 
Floats  onward  with  the   rich  light  melting  through. 

I  will  love  thee  as  the  Rays  love, 

That  quiver  down  the  ether, 
That  many-hued  in  solitude, 

Are  pure  white,  knit  together; 
And,  if  the  heavens  darken, 

Yet  faint  not  to  despair, 
But  bend  their  bow,  hope-shafted, 

To  glorify  the  air, — 
11* 


122  SPIRIT     MARRIAGE. 

That  do  their  simple  duty, 
Light-warm  with  love  and  beauty, 
Not  scorning  any  low  plant  anywhere. 

I  will  love  thee  as  the  Sweets  love, 
From  dewy  Rose  and  Lily. 

That  fold  together  cloud-like. 
On  zephyrs  riding  stilly, 

Till  charmed  Bard  and  Lover. 
.  Drunk  with  the  scented  gales, 

Name  one  Sweet  and  another, 
Not  knowing  which  prevails : 

The  winged  airs  caress  them, 

The  hearts  of  all  things  bless  them, 
So  will  we  float  in  love  that  never  fails. 

I  will  love  thee  as  the  Gods  love — 

The  Father  God  and  Mother, 
Whose  intermingled  Being  is 

The  Life  of  every  other, — 
One,  absolute  in  Twoness3 

The  universal  Power 
Wedding  Love  the  never-ending, 

Through  Planet,  Man,  and  Flower: 
Through  all  our  notes  shall  run  this 
Indissoluble  Oneness, 
With  music  ever  deepening  every  hour. 


THE  LABORER'S  THOUGHTS. 

WE  are  born  Men,  to  whom  high  thoughts  are  given . 

Heroic  hearts,  and  souls  of  manly  worth; 

Why  do  we  bend  our  foreheads  to  the  earth, 
And  yield  the  kingly  heritage  of  Heaven? 
Why  tame  to  deadness  the  keen  eye  whose  levin 

Flashed  hot  rebuke,  when  loathed  Oppression's  girth 

Galled  the  flayed  bosom  1    Why  this  utter  dearth 
Of  human  valor, — strength  that  might  have  riven 
Our  chains,  and  taught  the  oppressors  what  it  is 

To  do  and  suffer  tyranny,  and  how  deep 
And  sheer  before  them  yawns  the  wide  abyss. 

Where  Ruin  garners  what  the  Avengers  reap: 
Rouse  !  we've  a  weapon  now  more  sure  than  steel, 
Strike  home  a  mightier  blow  than  fleshly  arm  can  deal ! 

What!  had  we  not  the  nerve,  when  silk-soft  hands 
Put  on  the  yoke,  to  dash  the  Insulter  down ; 
Was  it  Forgiveness,  that  we  bore  the  frown 


124      THE    LABORER'S    THOUGHTS. 

Of  our  proud  masters,  till'd  their  teeming  lands. 
And  stooped  unmurmuring  to  their  hard  commands, 

Till  toil  and  scorn  and  suffering  had  grown 

Familiar  to  us  as  our  own  hearth-stone. 
And  time  was  marked  with  falling  tears  for  sands'? 
But  we  were  POOR,  and  out  of  our  own  want 

And  natural  love,  they  forged  the  links  we  wear: 
They  knew  how  Beggary  and  keen  Famine  daunt 

A  Father's  heart,  and  drive  him  to  despair ; 
We  had  but  starving  babes,  and  hands  to  toil, — 
They  had  the  hoarded  wealth,  the  wisdom,  and  the  soil . 

But  now  we  know  what  right  belongs  to  man. 

A  Child's  birthright  to  walk  God's  earth  and  live. — 
And  learning  this  hath  taught  us  to  forgive. 

For  we  are  brothers.     What  we  must  we  can 

Surfer,  in  meekness,  till  our  free  breath  fan 
Our  wrongs  away,  than  clouds  more  fugitive  : 
And  we  will  breathe  it,  till  the  mountains  give 

Our  voice  to  Heaven,  and  Heaven  through  all  its  span 

Resound  our  challenge  to  the  hoary  ill, 

Whose   life,  fore-doomed,   shall  feel  it    like  the  fire 

That  cleaves  thick  midnight  with  electric  thrill : 
Brave  hearts  shall  leap  to  hear  their  dumb  desire 

Mount  Heaven  in  words,  claiming  the  long-sought  Good, 

When  Wealth  and  Toil  unite  in  one  free  Brotherhood. 


THE   LABORER'S  THOUGHTS.        125 

In  Love  and  Wisdom  let  us  win,  for  all, 

What  loveless  cunning  gave  the  stronger  few; 
Not  for  one  eye  doth  Heaven  spread  its  blue, 
Green  Earth  her  beauty,  and  the  russet  Fall 
Gem  with  ripe  fruits  her  golden  coronal; — 
All  eyes  should  own  delight  in  every  hue. 
All  hands  should  claim  the  glad  task  to  renew 
Earth's  fleeting  bounties,  and  no  hunger-call 
Go  forth  unanswered :     One  broad  heritage 

God  gives  his  children,  and  to  us  a  power 
To  make  delightful  the  wide  war  we  wage 

On  Want  and  111 — through  which  we  win  the  dower 
Of  strength,  true  manhood,  and  quick  sympathy, 
Things  which  shall  set.  at  last.  Man  and  his  Labor  free. 


FROM  THE  BEREAVED  TO  NATURE. 

NOT  yet,  not  yet;  0  darling  mine ! 
0  Mother  Nature  call  me  not  to-day, 
With  wood  and  wave  and  beautiful  sunshine. 

And  all  thy  fresh  Divine, — 
For  heavy  shadows  on  my  spirit  weigh  j 
Along  thy  Gothic  aisles  of  pine 
I  hear  the  slow  receding  tread 
Of  one  unseen,  but  felt  at  every  footfall  dread. 

Cover  thy  beams,  0  clear-eyed  sun. 
Fold  on  thy  golden  breast  a  mantling  cloud. 
Nor  mock  the  shadow  of  that  awful  One 

With  splendors  vainly  shown; 
The  slow  out-flowing  of  a  fore-gone  shroud 
Hangs  o'er  me  heavy  and  alone, 
And  a  faint  vapor,  hot  and  black, 
With   smothering  folds  involves  the  pale    Destroyer's 
track. 


FROM  THE  BEREAVED  TO  NATURE.      127 

From  dancing  leaves  and  dimpling  waves, 
0  thou  bland  breathing  of  the  odorous  South — 
Thou  whose  invisible  and  soft  tide  laves 

The  shores  of  human  graves, 
Call  back  the  music  of  thy  mellow  mouth. 
And  bind  it  in  its  rosy  caves } 
An  air  whose  very  sighs  are  bliss, 
Would  shame  my  breathed  wo  in  such  an  hour  as  this. 

Forbear  sweet  birds  your  wonted  lays, 
Only  sad  Cuckoo  and  thou  Mourning  Dove  ] 
A  mystic  Death-march  shakes  the  woodland  sprays, 

And,  joined  from  many  ways, 
Aspires  to  drown  the  starry  songs  of  love ; 
Sweet  choir  of  childhood's  happy  days, 
Cease ;  let  that  tune  alone  ascend 
Till  it  hath  risen  where'all  sounds  harmonious  blend. 

Deeper  for  any  glad'ning  thing- 
Is  Sorrow's  pang,  and  Love's  lament  for  loss; 
Joy  barbs  with  fire  affliction's  keenest  sting, 

And  Azrael's  coming  wing 
Were  fittest  fan  for  brows  that  on  the  cross 
Wrinkle  with  fiery  suffering; 
0  then  withhold  a  little  while, 

Dear  mother  mine,  thy  charms  of  beckoning  hand  and 
smile. 


128      FROM  THE  BEREAVED  TO  NATURE. 

If  thy  warm  sunbeams  could  revive 
The  stiff  clay  mouldering  in  the  sunless  tomb, 
Thy  joyous  sounds  could  make  that  ear  alive — 

Thy  flowers  out-drive 

Death-taint  and  coffin-odor  with  sweet  bloom, — 
Then  could  I  bid  thee  thrive 
And  pour  their  vivic  virtues  there 
Where  the  converging  tracks  of  all  my  sad  thoughts 
are. 


But,  far  from  any  power  of  thine, 
The  cherish'd  soul  hath  toss'd  away  its  chain, 
Soaring  aloft  from  a  consuming  shrine, 

Out  of  thy  call  and  mine, 
Into  its  high;  invisible  victor-reign ! 
Drunken  with  sorrow's  bitter  wine, 
The  senses  reel,  and  spurn  relief 
That  mocks  alike  their  pangs  and  the  soul's  hopeful 
grief. 


Its  clay  thou  canst  alone  remould 
In  other  forms    to  flow,  to  bloom,  or  fly, 
But  nevermore  its  broken  urn  make  hold 
Its  pulses  free  and  bold, 


FROM    THE    BEREAVED    TO    NATURE.  129 

And  that  true  soul  of  large  humanity ; 

0  Mother  strong  and  manifold, 

Thou  art  bereaved,  and  hast  no  power 
To  save  thyself,    or  thine,   in  death's  triumphal  hour. 

Mock  not  the  eye  with  pleasant  shapes, 

The  ear  with  mingled  songs  of  joyous  tone, 

While  each  bereaved  sense  some  image  drapes 

From  memory,  that  but  apes 
The  perished  Real.     Through  the  Soul  alone 
The  wrung  heart  into  bliss  escapes; 
Avails  no  outward  touch  to  heal 
Wounds  which  the  central  core  and  life  of  being  feel. 

1  turn  me  from  thee,  Mother  mild, 

Into  the  heavens  of  Thought,   and  Spirit's  Faith  • 
There,  great  and  calm,  with  Godhood  over  smiled, 

Loving  and  undefiled — 
I  see  the  dead  victorious  over  death; 
Little  by  little  I  am  wiled 
From  pain  of  loss,  and  heart's  distress, 
To  the  unspeakable  rest  of  holy  Blessedness. 

A  little  while,  0  Mother  mine, — 
Darling  of  eye  and  heart, — a  little  while, 
And  thou  mayst  wake  to  me  thy  wind-harp  fine 
In  tremblings  of  the  Pine, 
12 


130      FROM  THE  BEREAVED  TO  NATURE. 

Thy  bird-songs,  and  the  dance  of  leaves,  and  smiles 
Of  dimpled  waves  and  bright  sunshine, 
When  the  grief-chastened  Senses  rise 
Till  to  the  Spirit's  faith  their  full  amen  replies. 

With  softened  tears  will  blend  thy  dews, 
With  pangiess  sighs  thy  blandest  zephyrs  breathe. 
And  through  the  heart  thy  many  forms  and  hues 

Their  hallowed  joy  diffuse, 

While    odors  sweet,    and    sweet  thoughts    inter- 
wreathe 

Their  charms,  to  soothe  the  healing  bruise; 
All  that  was  lost  shall  come  again, 
And  Soul  and  Sense  alike  grow  stronger  for  their  pain. 


THE  AUTUMNAL  EQUINOX. 

Sorrow  and  Joy  that  interweave 

The  raven  with  the  golden  locks, 
Fall  brings  to  them  who  smile  and  grieve — 

Their  soul's  Autumnal  Equinox. 

TRACKING  the  pastures  to  the  pebbled  marge 

Of  Ocean,  through  rank  grasses  brown  and  sere, 
With  chill  winds — wearied  of  their  chase  at  large 
Over  the  salt,  wide-waving  hemisphere — 
Moaning  around  me  of  the  dying  year, 
Themselves  in  long  reeds  dying, — 
In  concert  with  their  sighing 
I  felt  a  low  strain's  tremulous  hum, 
Along  the  misty  grandeur  come 
Of  that  uncross'd  and  solemn  voiced  sea 
Whereon  we  drive,  and  it  went  over  me, 
A  wave  of  low-toned  music,  in  spray-rain, 
Breaking,  and  rippling  back  into  a  sad  refrain  ; 
And  when  the  moan'd   thought  took  the  pen's  con 
straint, 
It  pined  away  to  this  Autumnal  plaint. 


132  THE     AUTUMNAL    EQUINOX. 

O  sad-sweet  Autumn !  0  more  sad  than  sweet ! 
Swarthy  Guerrilla  nurst  in  Ruin's  lair  j 
Insatiate  spoiler  of  the  loved  and  fair — 

The  all  too  fleet: 

Grim  prophet,  still  with  fixed  and  rigid  finger 
Pointing  to  that  inexorable  tread, 

Whose  sullen  beat — 

Measured  and  firm  with  fate  that  will  not  linger- 
Summons  the  living  to  the  dead  j 

0  why,  red  Autumn,  with  such  eager  joy 

Wilt  thou  destroy 

The  blended  beauties  of  the  golden  year, 
Rounding  with  grief  our  joy-curved  planisphere  ? 

With  heavy  heart  and  humid  eye, 
I  mark  the  pallid  glories  die, — 
The  fading  of  the  woven  hues 
That  ran  through  summer's  busy  loom; 
The  fainting  of  the  unseen  flowers  of  song, 

That  all  the  glad  months  long 
Were  uttered  beauty  and  melodious  bloom, 
Whose  fragrance  came  in  music.     If  I  choose 

1  cannot  stint  my  sadness,  when  I  muse 

How  these  are  slain  by  thy  keen  breath, 
0  pander  of  the  Tomb, 
0  parasite  of  Death  ! 


THE     AUTUMNAL     EQUINOX.  133 

The  winds  moan  in  the  fields,  and  make 
The  firstlings  of  Decay  sing  auto-dirges, 

And  premonitions  which  green  life  may  take, 
Sighingly  as  the  seared;  moan,  too,  the  surges, 
Along  thick-weeded  rocks,  while  salt-cold  tears 
Silverly  trickle  down  the  Sea-King's  beard, 
A  tinkle  in  the  moaning,  faintly  heard, 
Sad  as  the  clash  of  gems  round  Wealth's  or  Beauty's 

bier; 

The  very  hearth-fire  moans  and  sobs,  as  though 
Its  fluttering  pulses  quivered  with  our  wo, 
That  made  its  rosy  lips  grief-garrulous, 
So  sadly  well  they  are  attuned  with  us. 

The  sun  walks  up  the  leaden  sky,  and  down, 
In  a  pale  amber  ring 

Storm-heralding, 
Nor  can  his  fires  avail  to  fling 
The  portent  from  him,  that  hath  cast  its  frown 
Over  their  burning,  with  his  flight  to  roll 

And  round  'him  still  to  cling, 
Like  some  foreshadowed  doom  around  a  Prophet's  soul. 

I  moan,  too,  in  these  meanings, 

I  answer  in  like  wise 
The  hollowest  intonings 

Of  their  most  hollow  sighs. 
12* 


134  THE     AUTUMNAL     EQUINOX. 

My  spirit  in  the  shadow  trips, 
Stumbling  on  doubts,  and  into  darkness  slips 
I  moan,  but  not  because  I  see 
Dear  Summer  waning  patiently 
To  a  most  sad  eclipse 
Of  all  she  hath  most  fair, 
While  low  sighs  part  her  pallid  lips, 
And  lift  her  fading  hair; 
Not  that  the  keen-edged  air 
Shaves  to  the  level  of  the  foot  of  Death 
The  heights  of  Beauty,  with  its  cutting  breath: 

Though  these  were  sad  enough  to  start 
The  sobbing  Grief, — young  nursling  of  my  heart, — 
From  the  short  sleep  of  her  self-wearying: 

But  for  the  deeper  sting 
Of  their  predictive  menace,  like  a  dart 
Shot  from  the  random  bow  of  the  dread  Archer, 

And  falling  short 
By  one  suspended  plunge  of  his  swift  ashen  charger : 

But  for  the  quickened  stirring 
Of  allayed  pangs,  and  tears  for  human  loss ; 

For  the  too  fast  recurring 
Of  doubts  foregone  and  sorrows  trailed  across 
The  soul's  Serene,  like  clouds  across  the  sun, 
Which,  if  not  deep  as  very  night, 
Still  by  that  ring  of  half-quenched  light 
Portend  a  stormier  darkness  glooming  on. 


THE     AUTUMNAL     EQUINOX.  135 

Thrice   ere  the   round  moon's   ebbing  light   waned 

thrice 

To  its  decay,  the  tramp  of  the  White  Horse 
Hath  trod  out  jewels  from  my  crown  of  love  : 
Thrice  the  pale  Rider,  stooping,  from  above, 

His  brows,  that  mock  remorse, 
Hath  torn  my  loved  ones  off  with  hand  of  ice  ; 

I  mourn  to  lose  from  earth  and  me 
The  fearless-faithful  and  the  humbly  good. — 
To  be  toss'd  forward  on  the  bounding  sea 
Three  billows  more 
From  sight  of  shore, 
Towards  the  long  waste  of  utter  solitude. 

Thrice  to  her  grave  beyond  the  western  line 
Of  utmost  day.  the  dying  moon  had  gone. 
Thrice  rose  again  into  her  silver  dawn, 

And  smiled  by  turns  on  graves  that   cover  Mine, 

Even  at  my  feet  unyielding.     So  divine 
Her  silent  strength  is,  lightly  as  a  fawn 
She  leaps  the  pits  where  lurking  ruins  yawn  ; 

And  walks  en  wreathed  in  her  virgin  shine. 

So  cloud-like  heavy  are  our  lives,  we  sink 

Darkened  and  darkening  to  the  sheer  Unknown, 

Now  rain  down  sorrows  from  the  looming  brink 
For  other's  fate,  then  follow  to  our  own; 


136  THE      AUTUMNAL     EQUINOX. 

And  scarce  one  Spirit  from  these  fogs  of  Sense 
Can  flash   out  a  pure  gleam  on   its  own  Where   or 
Whence ! 

Thus  while  the  Autumn's  breath, 

Surcharged  with  frosty  death. 
Ruffled  Atlantic's  bosom  to  a  moan. 

Deeper  and  deeper  still, 

With  more  prevailing  chill, 

The  sighing  plaint  o'erswept,  and  heaved  my  own; 
It  marr'd  the  mirror,  but  quenched  not  the  sun  ; 
High  over  all  the  orb  of  Faith  went  on. 
And  now  I  bless  the  showering  down  of  grief, 
For  but  in  rain  dark  skies  find  blue  relief. 

Anon  the  waters  sang  a  blither  tune, 
Leaped  on  the  beach,  and  with  low  rustling  laugh'd  : 
The  sun,  gone  up  into  his  Hall  of  Noon, 
Kiss'd  the  dun  clouds  into  a  rosy  swoon — 

Light-drunk  and  blushing  with  the  wine  they  quaffed : 
Sang  the  long  reeds  love-softly,  in  a  lull 
Of  the  faint  breeze  pluck'd  of  its  frosty  tooth; 
And  the  red  kindling  forest  looked,  in  sooth, 
More  dreamily  calm  and  queen-like  beautiful, 

Than  in  its  prime  of  youth. 
Forth  from  its  iron  cell 
The  fire  laughed  long  and  well; 


THE      AUTUMNAL     EQUINOX.  137 

With  gleeful  crackling,  full  of  merry  hints 

Of  Mirth  and  social  cheer 

To  crown  the  garnered  year. 

What  time  Joy  scarcely  dints, 

With  rapidest  footprints, 
The  virgin  snow  and  twinkling  atmosphere. 

The  heart  put  off  its  heavy  guise 
Of  sorrow  slowly,  and,  grown  Autumn-wise, 
Felt  change  its  murmur  to  a  song  of  Faith. 
And  calm-eyed  triumph  over  frost  and  death. 

Shame  be,  it  said,  that  any  heart  should  keep 

The  felon  grief  within  its  sanctuary, 

To  love  and  life,  to  God,  and  to  the  very 

Heart  feeding  it,  a  traitor  stained  and  deep. 

More  shame  that  a  grown  soul  supinely  lingers 
With  backward  looking  to  the  doubts  that  haunted 
Dawn's  twilight,  while,  around  him  and  undaunted. 
The  Powers  of  Nature,  like  love-covenanted 

Pure  Angels  pointing  God  ward  with  white  fingers, 

All  tell  of  Life,  themselves  but  strong  Life-bringers. 
Autumn  is  not  decay,  but  mellowing 
Of  the  crude  germs  that  glorify  the  Spring 

In  its  new  dawn;  it  is  not  death, 
But  life's  fruition.     Nothing  perisheth, 


138  THE      AUTUMNAL     EQUINOX. 

But  in  its  husk  and  shroud,  against  the  waste 
Of  storm  and  winter,  guards  the  immortal  spark; 
Round  the  full  year  is  Life  by  new  Life  chased, 
Nor  throbs  more  glad,  in  Summer's  arms  embraced 
Than  when  her  own  ice-woven  zone 
Is  round  her,  cold  and  stark. 

To  spirits  who  have  sown 

Their  seed  in  spring-time,  and  in  summer  done 
Their  summer-task,  the  Autumn  is  not  sad. 
They  know  from  whence  all  Winter-joys  are    had. 

And  winter  hopes;  they  know,  and  they  alone. 
Let  flowers  go  down  to  wilt  on  Flora's  tomb, 
They  have  fruits  now;  and  every  fruitless  bloom 

Whose  dower  is  sweetness,  they  have  harvested, 

And  it  lives  in  them  by  sweet  thoughts  it  shed, 

Like  refined  odor,  though  its  leaves  are  dead. 

If  death  strike  down  the  loved,  they  do  not  say 
"The  chain  is  snap'd!"  but  "We  are  drawn 
By  one  link  more  anear  the  heights,  where  dawn 

The  fore-sent  glories  of  the  eternal  Day." 

Under  the  loosening  clasp  of  leaves, 

That  tremble  like  a  flickering  flame, 
The  little  Buds  bind  fast,  in  cone-like  sheaves, 
The  life,  whose  loss  the  mourner  grieves, 
Yet  in  new  springs  to  greet  with  new  acclaim : 


THE      AUTUMNAL     EQUINOX.  139 

And  the  wise  gather  strength  from  these 
To  wrestle  with  the  doubts  that  come 
Like  clouds,  whose  tempest-pinions  hum 
In  gales  of  the  heart's  Autumn.     When  he  sees 
That  nothing  ends,  but  all  prepares  to  be, 

That  Nature  makes  the  flower  and  tree 
Immortal,  he  believes  from  thence 
That  a  more  lofty  Excellence 
Shall  reap  a  higher  Immortality. 

Then  was  I  glad  when  I  remembered  this, 
That  even  the  outward  charm  of  common  things 
Is  born  of  Beauty  who  is  conquerless  ; — 
Who  from  her  fall  with  ample  vigor  springs 
To  claim  anew  her  kindred  and  her  crown; 
Then  the  full  heart  saw  all  its  grief  struck  down: 
No  room  was  left  for  breathings  of  distress, 
For  winds,  to  sigh,  must  traverse  emptiness. 
In  lighter  mood  I  measured  back 
Along  the  fields  my  morning  track. 
Full  many  flowers,  that  overcame  the  wrath 
Of  stormy  winds,  hung  nodding  round  my  path, 
Where  alder-banks  with  ruby  jewels  crown'd, 

Stretching  their  green  arms  round, 
Fenced  narrow  patches  into  warm  enclosures, 
And  on  the  low  rim  of  the  pool  of  osiers 


140  THE     AUTUMNAL     EQUINOX. 

They  peeped  and  glittered  to  the  noon's  grave  smile — 
Brave  bands  in  Beauty's  shattered  rank  and  file— 
And  glad    brown-breasted    birds  sang  momently  the 
while. 

She  seemeth  now  the  soul  of  every  scene, 

Dear  Beauty,  fearless  and  the  same  forever 
That  she  hath  been,  high  and  serene, 

And  faithless  to  her  children  never, 
Whether  old  Winter  shakes  his  hoary  beard 
In  wrath  at  her  blithe  coming,  or  the  wierd 
June  winds  kiss  out  the  love -faint  dews  that  quiver 
With  overfulness  of  delight,  insphered 
By  the  flush'd  arms  of  Roses, — 
Still  like  a  Queen 
With  dauntless  mien, 
She  champions  the  soul's  best  faith. 
When,  round  her  reign,  the  strength  of  Autumn  closes 

With  blight  and  death, 
And  the  wild  rout  of  grief  and  doubt 
Assails  the  soul  that  on  her  life  reposes, 
For  many  a  sweetness  lost 
She  wrings  from  wind  and  frost 
A  glorious  victory ;  and  such  boot  they  render 
Into  her  cunning  hands,  the  fading  year 
Glides  down  the  slant  path  of  its  grave  anear. 
In  more  than  primal  splendor. 


THE      AUTUMNAL       EQUINOX.  141 

If  so  transcendant  gleamings  flash 
From  one  brief  jarring  of  the  gate  of  death, 
Then,  the  cheered  spirit  saith, 
Let  its  rough  hinges  crash 
What  time  they  will  to  welcome  me 
Into  its  glorious  realm  of  holy  mystery ! 

When  the  scared  flocks  of  tender  flowers  grow  pale, 
As  the  wolf-winds  come  howling  through  the  vale  j 
And  o'er  her  pure  consuming  cheeks  droop  down 
The  fairest  buds  of  Flora's  jewelled  crown, 
From  which  her  vain  tears  wash  their  hues,  to  stain 
That  cheek  in  mockery  of  its  own,  again, 
Unconquered  Beauty  cheers  the  stricken  Queen 
With  purple  stars  that  fron  the  hedges  lean, 
In  varied  constellations  ]  and,  between, 
With  pomp  of  gold  to  shame  the  wrinkled  sod, 
Fuller  than  Aaron's  blooms  a  slender  rod  : 
Even  Spring's  young  darling  dares  the  growing  cold — 
Brave  Dandelion  with  his  shield  of  gold, — 
Come  back  like  things  of  childhood  to  the  old, 
When  all  beside  is  slipping  from  their  hold; — 
And  humble  flowers  that  wait  unknown  till  fame 
Rewards  the  worthy  with  a  song  and  name, 
By  trampled  way-sides  tempt  the  avenging  blast : 
To  Beauty's  banner  faithful  to  the  last. 
13 


142  THE    AUTU3INAL    EQUINOX. 

When  her  deep  blush  at  Autumn's  traitor  kiss 
Fades  to  white  death,  and  dies  tjie  poor  betrayer, 
Scorned  of  the  tyrant  whom  he  served  to  slay  her. 
Slowly  she  sinks,  in  utter  silentness, 

To  her  life-guarding  tomb, 
Wept  o'er  by  every  withered  bloom, 
Whose  feathered  seedlings  ride  upon  the  gale, 
Full  of  unconscious  nerve  to  re-assail 
Their  haughty  captor,  and  to  plant  once  more 
Her  rescued  banner  where  it  waved  before. 


THE  GARDEN. 

I  WAS  a  boy  when  first  my  Father  gave 

From  his  broad  fields  a  fair  uncultured  plot. 
Flowerless  and  weedless  for  my  garden  spot. 

With  choice  of  many  seeds,  that  in  their  grave 

With  husky  cerements  wrapt  the  vital  force 
Of  perished   spasnns,  safe  from  ice  and  rot  : 
And  where  to  sow  he  left  me  free,  and  what : 

Only  the  winds  would  sometimes  break  their  course. 

Or  scatter  germs  not  mine.    Ah  me,  how  glad 
I  trod  my  new  field  with  a  boy's  delight, 

And  gaily  flung  the  good  seed  and  the  bad. 
Careless  of  which  and  whither,  wrong  or  right : 

'T  was  joy  enough  to  see  each  tender  spear 

Open  its  green  leaves  to  the  infant  year. 

Alas !  the  weeds  are  ranker  than  the  flowers. 
And  choke  the  dwindled  shootings  of  the  corn, 
Ere  Summer's  first  moon  fills  her  crescent  horn. 
I  did  not  know  how  many  painful  hours 
The  sturdy  toil  of  all  my  boyish  powers 


144  THE      GARDEN. 

Must  bend  to  my  small  garden,  night  and  morn, 

Its  little  plot  with  fitness  to  adorn  j 
How  I  must  bear  hot  sun  and  drenching  showers. 
O  many  a  sweet  bud  droopeth,  sickly  pale. 

Under  the  leaf-shade  of  unfruitful  weeds. 
And  creeping  vines  their  icy  meshes  trail 

Round  the  young  Rose,  whose  stem  with  wounding 

bleeds ; 

iSo  close  they  cling,  their  fingers  will  not  quit, 
And  my  poor  heart  bleeds,  too,  to  suffer  it. 

To  let  the  weeds  grow  longer  I  am  loth, 

They  so  encumber  all  my  little  land, 
To  pluck  them  up  will  mar  the  better  growth 

Which  is  so  marr'd  and  stunted  while  they  stand, 
Disturb 'd  and  broken,  their  rank  odor  doth 

Impregn  the  airs  around,  till  they  expand 
With  growing  deaths — so  are  they  fell  in  both. — 

Assailed  or  prospering  • — drinking  up  the  dews, 
And  feeding  them  with  poisons  for  their  gift. 

Foul-breathing  plants,  ye  shall  not  so  abuse 
The    sweet-breath'd    flowers,  and  spend    their   native 
thrift, 

Teaching  the  winds  my  folly  to  accuse ; 
If  yet  your  roots  must  fatten  in  my  soil, 
My  whetted  knife  your  flaunting  tops  shall  spoil. 


THE      GARDEN.  145 

There  is  no  evil  that  is  wholly  ill ; 

Even  the  rankness  of  the  garden-weeds, 

In  their  decay,  the  blooming  rose-bud  feeds. 
And  every  blossom  which  they  strove  to  kill. 
Of  true  revenge  takes  now  its  utmost  fill, 

Turning  the  foul,  that  did  it  foul  misdeeds. 

To  pleasant  sweets,  and  all  their  ugly  reeds 
Transform  to  Rose,  fair  Pink,  or  Daffodil. 
The  wasting  spoiler  feeds  the  wasted  spoiled, 

The  robber's  booty  makes  the  robbed  more  rich, 
The  hungry  111  is  in  its  climbing  foiled. 

And  the  sweet  Good  hath  found  a  prouder  niche ; 
The  newer  fragrance  of  my  Roses,  now, 
Will  well  repay  the  toil-drops  of  my  brow. 

Ah  cruel  weeds,  when  I  have  crop'd  you  so 
Why  will  ye  not  your  loathsome  growth  forbear? 
My  scanty  field  hath  small  room  for  the  fair. 

And  ye.  foul  things !  I  would  not  have  ye  grow : 

Oh  not  for  such  did  he  who  gave,  bestow 
This  pleasant  land ;  for  what  vile  things  ye  are 
He  brought  not  water  with  such  tender  care. 

When  the  great  thirst  bent  all  the  herbage  low. 

But  yesterday  I  thought  ye  would  have  died, 
Clip'd  round  so  closely  by  my  pruning  knife; 
t8* 


146  THE      GARDEN. 

To  day  ye  lift  your  heads  in  growing  pride, 

And  eat  the  flowers  up  with  your  lusty  life  : 
With  firm  hand  I  must  cut  you  down  once  more. 
Though  your  sweet  neighbors  suffer  for  it  sore. 

The  faithful  tiller  of  his  little  field; 

Who  makes  the  Rain  and  Sun  his  ministers. 
And  every  season  its  obedience  yield; 

With  the  great  Life  and  Soul  of  all  confers : 
And,  by  the  hoe  and  mattock  he  doth  wield, 

He,  on  his  rough  indurate  palm,  is  sealed 
Co-worker  with  the  infinite  Power  that  stirs 

The  huge  life-pulses  of  the  universe. 
Better  his  little,  with  its  blooming  soil 

Cherished  by  Nature's  fond  maternal  kiss, 
Than  broadest  leagues  of  prouder  souls,  where  coil 

Unfruitful  vines  in  tangled  wilderness: 
The  proud  shall  hunger  in  his  hollow  pride. 
While  the  poor  Gardener's  wants  are  all  supplied. 

I  thank  thee,  Father,  that  my  field  is  small  : 
A  broader  plot  might  tempt  the  envious  eye. 

Now  I  can  glance  in  quiet  over  all, 
Unmoved  by  baridyings  of  the  passers  by; 

Can  see  the  white  Rose  trembling  rise  and  fall, 
As  if  a  wrhiter  breast  beneath  did  lie; 


THEGARDEN.  147 

Or  hear  the  wind's  breath,  soft  and  musical, 
Where  nod  the  blue-bells  to  the  clear  blue  sky. 

And  one  sweet  Soul,  or  haply  two  or  three 
Whose  hearts  are  restful  with  their  depth  of  love. 

May  pass  light-step'd  the  wicket  gate  with  me, 
And  hushed  with  Beauty's  living  presence,  rove 

Among  the  flowers,  inhaling  their  sweet  breath. 

But  with  rude  fingers  putting  none  to  death. 

In  gardens  open  to  the  vulgar  gaze 
I  have  seen  flowers  most  sweet  and  delicate, 
Whose  purer  beauty  bred  them  fouler  fate, 

So  pure,  the  hot  breath  of  perpetual  praise 

Blighted  their  sweets,  till  no  cool  shower  could  raise 
Their  shriveled  petals; — whom  to  adulate. 
The  unwise  crowd  besmeared  their  virgin  state 

With  touch  and  kiss,  and  jostlings  in  the  ways. 

But  no  foul  breath  of  praise  or  calumny 
Shall  taint  the  air  around  my  blooming  plants, 

Close-hedged  and  hidden  from  the  common  eye, 
And  only  open  to  a  dear  one's  glance ; 

What  rising  odors  fill  the  passing  breeze, 

These  shall  be  theirs  without,  and  only  these. 

I  know  that  dwellers  in  the  lands  remote 

Have  richer  fields,  where  all  the  golden  South 


148  THE      GARDEN. 

Pours  down  its  wealth,  despite  of  storm  and  drouth. 
And  the  whole  purple  year,  in  ceaseless  rote, 
Showers  fast  all  fruits  on  which  the  senses  dote, 

Into  the  full  lap  of  luxurious  Sloth; 

But  not  for  all  their  wealth's  spontaneous  growth 
Would  I  exchange  my  little  toil-fed  spot: 
Their  Olive's  fatness  I  can  gladly  spare. 

Be  well  content  to  lack  their  odorous  gums. 
For  one  sweet  plant,  which  will  not  flourish  there. 

From  the  good  soil  of  my  wee  garden  comes. 
A  lowly  herb,  with  fragrance  ever  pure, 
For  whose  rich  virtue  all  exchange  were  poor. 

I  knew  not  once  how  rich  a  largess  laid 

Hemnrd  in  my  little  garden's  plot  of  ground. 
Till  in  the  midst,  one  blessed  morn,  I  found 

A  tiny  Spring  beneath  my  busy  spade  : 

0  how  it  bounded  from  its  ambuscade, 

Like  an  old  Gladness  leaping  from  a  swound, 
And  scattered  its  clear  waters  all  around, 
In  whirls  and  crinkles,  glittering  as  they  play'd. 

1  thought  my  flowers  were  something  fair  before  : 
But  fairest  then,  were  brown  and  meager  now  ; 

The  dunnest  herb  spread  sallow  bloom  no  more. 
The  loveliest  kindled  with  a  lovelier  glow. 


THE      GARDEN.  149 

All  brightness  sparkled  more  divinely  bright, 
And  the  cloy'd  air  grew  dizzy  with  delight. 

Delightful  flowers  my  garden  never  knew, 

Till  from  its  bosom  gushed  the  crystal  spring, 
Around  its  brim  in  simple  sweetness  grew, 

And  showered  their  fragrance  on  the  zephyr's  wing, 
Making  the  softest  breeze  that  ever  flew 

More  soft  and  bland,  for  their  sweet  blossoming; 
In  the  still  pool  they  rest  on  Heaven's  blue, 

With  the  deep  stars  that  gird  its  nightly  ring: 
Though  some  have  gone  for  whom  I  nurst  their  bloom, — 

Souls  purp.r  than   the  buds  their  breathing  fed, — 
Yet  never  wasted  was  one  flower's  perfume, 

Though  far  alone  its  silent  leaves  were  shed. 
Haply  their  blooms  have  shot  ecstatic  bliss 
Through  unseen  lips  that  bent  them  with  their  kiss. 

If  they  who  loved  my  little  flowers  in  life, 
Do  yet  rejoice  when  most  their  sweets  prevail, 
How  will  they  mourn  when  ills  their  good  assail, 

From  rank  weeds  towering  o'er  the  blunted  knife. 

The  embattled  North,  pour'd  down  in  sudden  strife, 
Or  when  still  cankers  gnaw,  or  some  vile  snail 
Across  their  fair  bloom  drags  his  slimy  trail, 

While  hungry  reptiles  in  their  roots  are  rife  ! 


150  THE     GARDEN. 

All  me?  will  they  not  wholly  fly  my  grounds, 
Dewing  stain'd  leaves  \vith  unavailing  tears — 

Weeping  in  sadness,  for  the  oft  sad  wounds 
They  bear  in  woundings  of  my  bloomy  spears ! 

Alas,  sweet  Spirits,  do  not  leave  me  so, 

Or  my  poor  field  will  into  desert  grow  ! 

But  now  I  went  to  kiss  a  dewy  rose, 

For  love  of  one  whose  pale  hand  planted  it. 
Just  ere  her  last  hold  upon  life  she  quit; 

A  lovely  plant,  ere  torn  by  vengeful  foes, 

As  any  flower  that  in  my  garden  grows; 

Through  the  long  Sabbath  mornings  would  I  Sit 
And  think  her  pure  soul  did  around  it  flit. 

As  viewless  pinions  broke  its  sweet  repose ; 

Kneeling  me  there,  a  hateful  Centipede 

Fell  from  my  garments  on  its  tender  breast, 

And  all  his  hundred  foot-tracks  made  it  bleed, 
Staining  the  rich  folds  of  its  downy  vest  j 

Thrice  cruel  worm,  for  this  my  Rose's  hurt 

I  pluck'd  him  off  and  trod  him  in  the  dirt. 

Trodden  in  earth,  that  yields  beneath  the  tread, 
The  trampled  reptile  from  his  grave  doth  crawl, 

To  soil  anew  the  Rose's  heart  he  bled; 
With  half  his  length  drag'd   lifeless  from  his  fall 


THE      G  A  R  D  E  N  .  151 

A  loathsome  weight,  more  vile  for  being  dead, 

While  yet  is  clinging  any  life  at  all. 
Nightly  he  comes,  but  when  I  wake  is  fled 

Into  some  covert  of  the  outer  wall  : 
Witness  ye  dews  that  see  my  nightly  search 

Intent  the  many-footed  fiend  to  slay, 
How  ill  my  heart  brooks  he  should  so  besmirch 

A  single  flower  in  all  my  fair  array; 
And  thou  pure  moon,  if  thou  thy  lamp  wilt  lend, 
This  cunning  foe  one  night  shall  meet  his  end. 

I  cannot  tire  of  sitting  by  my  Spring, 

And  looking  down  into  its  crystal  cup 

AD  day,  to  see  the  pure  lymph  bubble  up, 
As  if  it  came  from  the  bright  clouds  that  swing 
In  the  blue  deeps :     While  all  the  blithe  birds  sing 

Perpetual  paeans  on  the  hedgerow  top ; 

And  when  night-chills  their  streams  of  music  stop, 
And  every  breeze  has  furl'd  its  gentle  wing, 
My  spotless  hyaline,  girding  in  the  sweep 

Of  the  great  stars,  reminds  ambitious  care 
How  much  of  Heaven  a  little  cirque  may  keep, 

When  blessed  peace  and  purity  are  there; 
It  hath  such  life  I  would  not  quit  it  then, 
But  falPn  asleep  could  see  it  all  agen. 


152  THE      GARDEN. 

Just  in  the  centre  of  my  living  Well 

A  swan-like  Lily  floateth  legally, 

Set  like  the  pupil  of  a  soft  blue  eye, 
But  huelessj  and  it  heaveth  with  the  swell 
Of  the  thrill'd  pulses,  when  the  young  winds  tell 

Their  love-tales  to  the  waters.     Tenderly 
It  kisseth  the  pure  waves  that  underlie 

Its  virgin  bosom,  and  the  waves  reply 
With  sweet  embraces,  as  if  Life  and  Love, 

After  long  parting,  met  and  mingled  there 
Sown  from  the  full  lip  of  Eudora's  dove 

Was  the  good  seed  of  this  my  Lily  fair, 
And  for  her  dear  sake-  will  I  keep  from  harm 
This  sweetest  bloom  in  all  my  little  farm. 

No  day  is  long  whose  hours  behold  me  muse 
Above  my  Well-spring  and  its  one  white  Lily, 
And  never  blows  the  breath  of  night-winds  chilly, 

Or  showers  disaster  in  the  falling  dews, 

When  prolonged  watches  teach  me  to  abuse 

Health,  and  the  sleep-god's  summons  answer  illy; 
Till  he,  sly  Elfin!  creeping  slow  and  stilly, 

Leaps  on  my  lids  to  force  what  I  refuse. 

But  all  his  triumph  is  not  my  defeat, 

He  cannot  lock  the  postern  gate  of  thought, 


THE      GARDEN. 


Where  dreams  glide  in  with  their  rehearsals  sweet, 
And  play  the  scenes  that  waking  fancy  wrought  j 
Through  all  those  hours  the   droughtless  runnel  flows, 
And  the  pure  Lily  smiles  on  her  for  whom  it  blows. 

Bright  Spring,  that  waterest,  with  perennial  flow 
My  little  Garden  from  thy  pebbled  urn, 
Thirsting  and  faint  to  thee  I  gladly  turn, 

And  to  the  one  white  Lily  that  doth  grow 

Upon  thy  breast,  rock'd  gently  to  and  fro 
By  the  clear  wavelets;  sweeter  than  the  fern 
In  sweetest  hedges, — for  you  both  I  yearn, 

Beauty  that  flows,  and  Beauty  blooming  so ; 

Thy  waters  feed  a  hundred  flowers  beside, 
Thy  perfume,  Lily,  rivaleth  them  all ; 

Joy  is  it  deep  to  see  thy  clear  waves  glide  • 
And  more  to  mark  thy  bosom's  rise  and  fall, 

Divine  white  Flower  j  translucent  Pool  divine  j 

Sweet  child  of  a  pure  Mother,  and  both  mine. 

My  Northern  bound  an  oaken  forest  girts ; 

But  down  the  rough  North-east  the  winds  may  speed 
To  blight  my  tilth,  or  sow  the  thistle's  seed ; 
Mornward  the  Windflower  beds  my  fields  environ, 
Cowslips,  and  Daisies,  and  the  Dandelion  ; 

And  o'er  the  rich  South-east  grow  precious  worts, 

Wherewith  the  wise  heal  wounded  Nature's  hurts.- 
14 


154  THE      GARDEN. 

And  splendor  waves  o'er  all  the  Southern  mead ; 
The  golden  Fruit-land  bounds  the  broad  South-west, 

Where  sober  Pansies  deck  the  generous  soil, 
And  purple  vines,  that  with  true  culture  dress' d,. 

With  fourfold  bounty  would  repay  the  toil  j 
Round  all  the  West,  as  o'er  a  dismal  tomb, 
Hangs  a  dark  cypress-grove,  and  nodding  poppies  bloom. 

My  Father  saith,  what  time  my  toil  shall  make 

This  little  field  to  conquering  order  bow, 
From  wilds  surrounding,  I  am  free  to  take 

New  realms  to  subjugate  with  spade  and  plough, 
Ever  advancing,  for  sweet  Beauty's  sake, 

Upon  the  rude  wealth  that  empales  me  now. 
Which  way  I  till,  is  driven  another  stake 

New  lines  to  stretch,  and  the  grim  waste  to  cow? 
So  broad  and  noble  is  his  great  domain, 

That  endless  toil  an  endless  field  shall  find ; 
So  fast  on  idlesse  will  the  wild  growth  gain, 

The  running  vine  the  sluggard's  hand  will  bind 
Even  while  he  sleeps,  and  'fume  his  senses  so 
That  rousing  he  shall  doubt  whether   he  wake  or  no, 

A  Gardener's  life  must  be  a  life  of  toil, 
Beset  with  trials  many  and  severe  j 
Battling  his  way  against  the  fickle  year, 
With  no  kind  Sabbath  when  he  may  assoil 
His  rugged  palm,  or  from  the  knotted  coil 


THE      GARDEN.  155 

Of  carking  cares  once  shake  his  strong  limbs  clear. 

Till  his  purged  earth's  so  pure  he  may  not  fear 
The  cruel  tares  that  all  his  harvest  spoil. 
On  barren  winds  careers  the  thistle's  down, 

And,  rooted  once,  long  mocks  the  rugged  spade  ; 
Rolls  the  fog-blight  in  wreathings  dank  and  brown, 

Blasting  the  hopes  that  all  his  toil  had  paid  : 
His  hedge  is  scanty  when  the  north-winds  troop. 
And  hungry  wants  grin  through  its  every  loop. 

Oft  bending  lonely  in  my  tangled  field 

To  pluck  the  worthless  brambles  from  the  vine, 

Round  my  soft  limbs  would  winds  their  scourges  wield. 
While  clouds  rushed  madly  o'er  Heaven's  sapphirine, 

And,  ere  their  bolts  one  warning  note  had  peal'd, 
Devoured  in  greedy  haste  the  warm  sunshine, 
And  belched  the  great  shower  on  this  head  of  mine. 

As  their  huge  forms  in  drunken  revel  reel'd  : 

Bent  from  its  place  the  bladed  corn  would  stoop, 
And  draggled  flowers  blush  in  the  rude  embrace 

Of  gloating  earth,  that  forced  their  honors  droop, 
So  basely  bowed  their  cheeks  to  things  so  base  : 

And  the  close  clinging  earth,  blush  all  they  may. 

Will  but  perforce  let  go  so  sweet  a  prey. 

The  fierce  sun  cometh,  and  with  fiery  lips 
Drinks  up  the  life-pulse  of  the  pleasant  herbs. 


156  THE     GARDEN. 

The  ambrosial  juices  of  the  flower-cup  si-ps,   • 

Nor  the  hot  temper  of  his  passion  curbs 
Till  half  my  blooms  in  forced  embrace   he  clips  : 

Such  gross  despite  my  troubled  heart  disturbs, 
And  pray  I  rather  for  the  murk  eclipse, 

When  cloud  to  cloud  the  deep-mouthed  cry  reverbs, 
That  hunts  his  life-devouring  beams  away; 

For  fellest  storms  leave  freshness  in  their  track, 
While  only  ruin  marks  his  burning  way, 

With  perished  charms  no  dews  can  summon  back; 
Alas,  my  daily  round  of  fortune  seems 
A  tennis,  bandied  between  huge  extremes. 

Maugre  the  ills  that  mar  my  scanty  crop, 
And  blight  the  blooming  of  my  goodly  beds, 
The  embattled  corn  its  victor  ensign  spreads, 

The  sweet  flowers  their  deflowering  foes  o'ertop, 

And  sweeter  dews  of  honied  odors  drop, 

Feasting  the  winds  that  bowed  their  innocent  heads  : 
Each  widowed  bloom  a  newer  beauty  weds, 

Gilding  the  earth  that  earthed  her  beauty  up; 

Too  hasty  me,  to  add  my  murmuring  breath 
And  selfish  tears,  to  swell  the  showery  gale, 

Whose  march  I  feared  would  tread  my  field  to  death, 
Doubling  the  danger  with  my  briny  wail : 

Now  all  the  sunny  bloom-beds  bless  the  wet, 

And  but  my  fiery  drops  leave  any  stain-marks  yet. 


THE      GARDEN.  157 

0  blessed  Sunshine,  and  thrice-blessed  Rain, 
How  ye  dissolve  and  warm  the  rugged  soil, 
Which  else  were  barren,  nathless  all  my  toil, — 
And  summon  Beauty,  from  her  grave  again, 
To  breathe  live  odors  o'er  my  scant  domain  ; 
How  softly  from  their  pouting  buds  uncoil 
The  furled  sweets,  no  more  a  shriveled  spoil 
To  the  loud  storm,  or  canker's  silent  bane  j 
Were  it  all  sun,  the  heat  would  drink  them  up. 

Were  it  all  shower,  then  piteous  blight  were  sure  ; 
Now  hangs  the  dew  in  every  nodding  cup, 

Shooting  new  glories  from  its  orblets  pure  : 
Sun-fire  and  shower,  I  shrink  from  your  extremes, 
But  with  delight  behold  your  blended  gleams. 

Revengeful  Winter,  for  the  joy  I  took 
In  my  sweet  Flowers,  came  down  with  chilly  breath, 
And  in  grey  envy  flouted  them  to  death 

With  hissing  wind-whips  j  while  his  gorgon-look 

To  solid  marble  turned  my  prattling  Brook  • 
Yet  on  its  face  stood  fixed  the  dimpling  whirls, 
In  icy  beauty,  like  the  smile  which  curls 

An  Infant's  cheek,  that  life  but  just  forsook. 

0  gentle  Flowers,  I  knew  that  ye  must  die, 
My  heart  was  sad  to  see  it  day  by  day, 

Yet  would  I  cling  to  you,  and  wonder  why 
Beauty  must  perish,  Summer  pass  away. 
14* 


158  THE      GARDEN. 

And  sweetest  odors  feed  ungrateful  frost. 

While  famished  Zephyrs  mourn  that  all  are  lost. 

0,  dear  white  Lily !  wherefore  must  thou  sink 
Into  the  frosty  death-realm,  must  thou  shed 
Thy  soft  leaves  on  the  waters  which  have  fed 

Their  bloom  so  fondly?    Kneeling  on  the  brink 

Of  the  clear  pool  to  kiss  thy  folds,  or  drink 
The  bubbling  lymph, — no  spirit-murmur  said 
That  any  freshness  of  thy  life  was  fled, — 

Yet  then  it  trembled  like  a  starlet's  wink. 

Thy  pleasant  leaves  all  scentless  drifted  on, 
Like  shivered  hopes  upon  a  troubled  soul ; 

Now  the  last  cherished  one  is  sunk  and  gone, 
And  the  bare  pool  sleeps  chilly  in  its  bowl ; 

0  let  me  weep  till  my  warm  tears  revive 

The  thrice-dear  flower  and  keep  its  sweets  alive ! 

Why  mourn  the  perished  glories  of  the  past? 
Why  wrong  with  murmurs  Death's  paternal  care? 

Sire  of  Immortal  Beauty,  from  his  vast 

Embrace  with  Infinite  Life,  spring  all  things  fair 
And  good  and  wonderful;  ye  are  not  cast. 

Like  wailing  orphans,  on  the  desert  bare, 

To  cry  and  perish.     Life  comes  every  where 
With  Mother-love,  and  strong  Death  garners  fast 
His  bounty  for  her  board, — for  all  that  live 


THE      GARDEN.  159 

His  tireless  hands  the  harvest  sow  and  reap. 
He  feeds  alone  those  lily  breasts  which  give 

New  strength  to  all  on  Life's  white  arms  that  leap; 
Fear  not  sweet  Babes  in  his  thick  mantle  furPd, 
Now  lull'd  asleep,  to  wake  in  a  new  splendor- world. 

Ha  !  Winter  winds  may  be  severe  and  keen, 

And  winter-rime,  with  treason's  dagger,  stab 
The  artless  daughters  of  the  Floral  Queen  : 

And  check  the  blithe  waves,  till  they  dare  not  blab 
Their  pretty  secrets  to  their  loves,  who  lean 
From  verdant  banks  to  kiss  their  babbling  lips: 

And  winter-clouds  may  hug  in  foul  eclipse 
The  clear  Sun,  tarnishing  its  mellow  sheen. 
But  Beauty,  deathless,  still  survives  the  shock ; 

Those  merry  sprites,  who  feed  the  rose's  bloom, 
Back  to  the  earth  with  all  their  riches  flock, 

Hiding  the  dead  year's  treasure  in  its  tomb  j 
And  free  and  joyous,  in  the  icy  ring 
Of  Winter's  arms,  leaps  up  the  buoyant  Spring. 

Anon,  when  Winter's  palsied  hand  no  more 

The  sleety  storm  in  giant  fury  hurls, 
And  tearful  April,  ceased 'from  weeping  o?er 

Her  Mother's  grave,  dead  on  her  bosom  curls, 
Lo,  May  comes  forth,  with  ill- concealed  store 

Of  blushing  rubies,  diamonds,  and  link;d  pearls, — 


160  T  HE      G  A  RDE  N  . 

A  ransom,  opening  Beauty's  prison-door 

To  her,  and  her  blithe  troop  of  laughing  girls. 

Bird-like  a  few,  whose  full  hearts  made  them  brave, 
Sang  in  the  barren  cells  their  hopeful  song, 

Whereat  this  Angel  came,  bright-winged,  to  save. 
Melting  the  dungeon  bolts  and  fetters  strong: 

Now  all  pure  natures  hold  the  heavens  in  calm. 

With  the  deep  power  of  their  victorious  psalm. 

Free,  free !  the  waters  from  my  Well-Spring  bound ; 
The  immortal  vigor  of  their  central  Heart, 
From  unknown  deeps  whose  living  pulses  start, 
Hath  burst  the  bondage  of  their  marble  mound, 
And  through  the  field  their  sinuous  flower-path  found  : 
The  cunning  Buds  renew  their  playful  part, 
And  odors  keen  from  leafy  ambush  dart, 
Sweet  upon  sweet,  till  all  the  air  around 
With  joy's  excess  grows  giddy.     Dying  May 

Her  gems,  unused,  to  infant  June  bequeathed. 
And  the  dear  Babe  hath  flung  them  every  way 

In  her  most  gleeful  mood;  till  they  have  wreathed 
The  brownest  dell  with  beauties  which  bemock 
The  eyes  of  Angel-choirs  that  in  the  star-paths  walk. 

Joy !  joy !  a  boon,  more  rich  than  any  gem, 

Queen  Summer  gives, — my  Lily  from  its  grave  ! 
Oh  green  and  lithe  shot  up  its  slender  stem, 


THE     GARDEN.  161 

And  two  broad  leaves  spread  out  upon  the  wave. 
Like  hands  in  prayer  uplifted ;  under  them 

The  full  bud  nestled,  and  fresh  odors  gave, 
As  the  pure  white  came  peering  by  the  hem 

Of  the  green  calyx :  sweet  and  sweeter  yet 
It  opened  to  the  sunlight,  like  a  sun, 

Till  all  its  golden  heart  lay  dewy  wet 
In  the  cool  morn ;   or  seemed  this  peerless  one 

A  full-orb'd  Moon  in  the  blue  heavens  set 
Mid  starry  sparkles,  as  the  bright  waves  run, 

So  white  and  queenly  fair  my  glance  it  met. 

Tis  wise  in  summer-warmth  to  look  before 

To  the  keen-nipping  winter  j  it  is  good 
In  lifeful  hours  to  lay  aside  some  store 

Of  Thought  to  leaven  the  spirits  duller  mood: — 
To  mould  the  sodded  dyke  in  sunny  hour, 

Against  the  coming  of  the  wasteful  flood ; 
Still  tempering  Life's  extremes,  that  wo  no  more 

May  start  abrupt  in  Joy's  sweet  neighborhood. 
If  Day  burst  sudden  from  the  bars  of  Night; 

Or  with  one  plunge  leaped  down  the  sheer  abyss, 
Painful  alike  were  darkness  and  the  light, 

Bearing  fixed  war  through  shifting  victories  j 
But  sweet  their  bond,  where  peaceful  Twilight  lingers, 
Weaving  the  rosy  with  the  sable  ringers. 


162  THE      GARDEN. 

While  yet  the  Summer  bears  herself  aloft 

So  queenly  dight,  and  with  such  plenty  teems. 
Let  me  not  waste  the  hours  in  dalliance  soft. 

By  airs  ambrosial  lull'd  to  sabbath  dreams: 
But  with  hard  hand  uprear,  against  the  oft 

Reverse  of  times,  rock-laid,  the  oaken  beams 
Of  firm  defense;  that  when  the  year  hath  doff'd 

Its  glorious  verdure,  shall  be  left  some  gleams 
Of  the  old  Beauty,  and  a  sunny  spot 

Redeemed  from  Winter's  reign,  where  flowers  may 

grow 
In  simple  beauty,  and  the  frosts  come  not, — 

A  little  shelter  warmed  and  guarded  so 
That  sweetest  things,  from  which  the  soul  is  loth 
To  part,  may  flourish  with  perennial  growth. 

Now  Summer's  green  with  Summer  shall  not  pass. 

Nor  all  my  blooms  with  changing  seasons  wilt ; 

Fair  in  my  field  a  sheltering  cot  is  built; 
Foundations,  riven  from  the  granite's  mass, 
Bear  up  the  hewn  oak  like  a  shield  of  brass, 

Against  the  North,  to  dare  the  wildest  tilt 

Of  errant  storms.    With  blessed  sunshine  gilt. 
On  cedar  rafters  slopes  the  roof  of  glass. 
To  the  sweet  South  the  wall  is  crystal  clear, 

Letting  the  smallest  ray  of  gladness  in  : 


THE      GARDEN.  163 

But  thieving  frosts  that  creep  for  plunder  here, 

Pry  all  they  can,  they  shall  no  entrance  win ; 
Immortal  Beauty,  in  one  little  sphere, 
May  dance  her  blithe  round  through  the  changing  year. 

Let  the  frorne  North  my  sturdy  walls  assail, 
Till  all  its  engines  with  o;er-gorging  break ; 
Insidious  Frost  low-creeping  like  a  snake, 

Swift-rushing  sleet,  or  the  quick  crackling  hail, 

By  treachery  try,  or  fury,  to  prevail ; 

Let  the  North-west  its  howling  winds  awake, 
And  shout  around  me  till  their  hoarse  lungs  ache, 

And  their  spent  wrath  dies  to  a  feeble  wail ; 

Yet  calm  within,  the  silver  dew  shall  rest 
Fresh  in  the  Rose's  heart,  its  wonted  place, 

And  my  sweet  flowers  keep  Summer's  virgin  vest, 
Flying  she  left  in  Autumn's  rude  embrace: 

Beat  on  by  wrathful  storms,  my  cot  shall  be 

An  isle  of  Beauty  in  a  raging  sea. 

What  if  the  herd  who  see  my  glassy  roof 

Peer  o'er  the  drifts,  and  glitter  in  the  sun, 
With  snow-wreaths  hung,  Aquilo's  cunning  woof, 

Do  deem  that  life  and  dwelling  there,  is  none, 
Only  the  icy  mockery  of  a  home, 

By  the  old  year  in  childish  dotage  done, 
Who  mimics  oft  fantastic  hall  and  dome 

To  cheat  the  wretch  whose  eye  is  wise  alone  ? 


164-  THEGARDEN. 

Ye  blessed  ones  who  often  meet  me  here, — 
For  that  ye  come  the  never-drifted  way,— 

Know  well,  within  far  else  than  icy  cheer 
Welcome  your  souls  elect,  though  night  winds  play 

Without,  on  shrill  pipes,  to  the  waltzing  snow, 

And  the  great  trees  creak,  heaving  to  and  fro. 

Beneath  my  crystal  roof  a  chosen  few, 

Not  rudest  storms  can  buffet  from  my  door, 

Sport  glad,  and  glad'ning,  though  the  cold  winds  roar  : 

Spirits  all  truthful,  and  so  tender,  too, 

Their  honey-kiss  scarce  shakes  the  quivering  dew 
From  the  soft  petal,  where  it  hung  before  ; 
And  all  my  young  buds  pout  and  blush  the  more, 

To  tempt  those  lips  to  greet  their  rival  hue. 

In  warm  and  loving  hearts,  there  liveth  sure 
Magnetic  force  to  swell  the  coyish  bud 

Into  a  bloom  more  delicate  and  pure, 
And  send  a  soul  along  its  tingling  blood; 

For  seems  each  flower  more  fresh,  at  every  meeting, 

To  turn  its  fair  lips  to  their  gentle  greeting. 

Here,  throned  in  beauty,  reigns  supreme  delight, 
Whether  hoarse  Winter  growls  along  the  wold, 

Or  walks  majestic  Summer,  queenly  dight, 
Circled  with  glories  woven  manifold; 

Whether  dun  war-ranks  of  marauding  Night 
Drive  bleeding  Day  into  his  western  hold, 


THE      GARDEN.  165 

Or  morn,  victorious  on  the  mountain  height, 
Unfurls  his  tent  of  azure  fringed  with  gold ; 

Here  whitest  thought,  dove-wing'd,  from  purest  hearts, 
Hangs  on  the  breath  of  every  whispering  flower, 

And,  through  their  sweets,  its  sweeter  sense  imparts, 
A  living  joy  to  bless  the  weariest  hour; 

And  yet  so  humble  is  my  little  all, 

There  is  no  room  for  envy's  shafts  to  fall. 

Some  evil  mind  beside  my  runnel  flung 

The  Deadly  Nightshade,  that  it  rooted  there, 
And  with  foul  breathing  choked  the  plundered  air 
It  fed  on,  ere  good  hap  revealed  where  clung 
Its  hidden  vine,  with  rich  red  berries  hung, 
Mocking  plain  Virtue  with  an  outward  fair. 
For,  though  its  clustered  fruit  seemed  passing  rare, 
Its  false  eye-sweets  were  poison  to  the  tongue  j 
Plucking  it  thence  defiled  my  naked  hand, 
And  its  firm  grip  destroyed  with  deathful  wound 
A  cherished  plant,  which  came  from  Holy  Land, 
And  long  was  sheltered  in  my  hardy  ground. 
Ah  me  !  I  wept  with  unavailing  grief, 
To  see  the  shrunk  herb  perish  leaf  by  leaf. 

Dear  far-sent  Aloe!  let  my  anxious  toil 
Witness,  how  painfully  I  sought  to  make 

15 


166  THE      GARDEN. 

Thy  shriveled  root  survive  a  foreign  soil ; 

Shutting  the  searching  winds,  for  thy  dear  sake, 
From  breathing  on  thee;  and  with  glassy  foil 

Making  the  keen  shafts  of  the  frost  to  break 
From  their  true  path,  shot  forth  to  wound  and  spoil, 

And  giving  dews  thy  fever-thirst  to  slake : 
Yet  week  by  week  I  saw  thy  leaves  decay, 

And  mourned  thy  buds  could  never  come  to  bloom, 
Till  all  their  freshness  sunk  consumed  away, 

And  the  warm  soil,  thy  nurse,  became  thy  tomb; 
So  prized,  so  lost,  I  never  dreamed,  be  sure, 
One  perished  weed  could  leave  me  half  so  poor. 

0  now  lost  herb  I  will  not  mourn  for  thee ; 

Out  of  thy  grave  hath  sprang,  more  fair  and  fresh, 
A  graceful  vine  that  weaves  its  delicate  mesh 

In  mazy  folds  around  the  hawthorn  tree, 

That  stands  to  guard  it.     How  luxuriantly 
Its  lithe  stem  climbeth  heaven-ward,  girt  around 
With  wondrous  flowers3  whose  mystic  sense  profound 

Erst  tempted  gazers  to  idolatry. 

They  saw  the  symbols  of  a  Savior  slain, 

In  bloom  red-streak' d,  stamen,  and  tendrils  curl'd  j 

The  Scourge  and  Cross,  and  Vesture's  crimson  stain, 
Types  of  redemption  to  a  fallen  world ; 

But  though  to  me  such  message  is  not  there, 

Its  gorgeous  bloom  reveals  a  soul  surpassing  fair. 


THE     GARDEN.  167 

Sustained  and  sheltered  in  my  sunlit  bower, 

Where  mocking  winds  come  not  with  bitter  iribes, 
In  delicate  beauty  blooms  the  Passion  Flower ; 
Tempting  with  innocent  smiles — those  maiden  bribes. — 

Heaven's  own  sweet  limners,  such  as  paint  the  shower. 

And  bannerets  of  Sunset's  airy  tribes, 
To  gild  her  robes.     They,  glad  to  swell  her  dower, 

So  eager  crowd  that  each  on  each  they  press : 
And  sooth,  poor  Suitor,  she  can  only  pay 

In  bashful  blushes  and  breathed  thankfulness 
Their  kingly  boons;  yet  more  and  more  give  they 

For  that  sweet  shame,  which  makes  her  need  the  less  : 
For  worth  with  modesty  is  worth  made  more, 
Which  doubles  still  its  still  redoubling  store. 

From  dewy  day-dawn,  to  its  dewy  close, 
Between  the  Lark's  note  and  the  Whippoorwill's, 
With  life  as  fresh  and  musical  as  fills 

Their  varied  round,  in  quiet  joyance  goes 

The  faithful  Gardener,  spying  out  the  foes 
Of  queenly  Beauty,  whom,  for  all  the  ills 
They  wrought  her  reign,  his  hand  in  pity  kills, 

That  pure-eyed  Peace  may  in  her  realm  repose. 

He  bears  cool  water  to  the  drooping  flowers, 
And  gently  crops  o?er-flush'd  exuberance; 

Trains  the  young  vines  to  crown  imperial  bowers. 
And  guardeth  well  fair  buds  from  foul  mischance ; 


168  THE      GARDEN. 

Let  others  find  what  prize  befits  their  powers, 
His  deeds  put  smiles  on  Nature's  countenance. 

He  wrongs  the  great  Heart  and  the  great  Heart's  Sire. 

Who  saith  that  Labor  is  the  curse  of  eld; 
All  Life  delights  to  deck  the  proud  attire 

In  which  the  God  is  visibly  beheld; 
The  boundless  hungerings  of  the  Soul  require 

The  regal  task,  unawed  and  uncompelled  • 
Those  glittering  drops,  which  manly  brows  perspire, 

Are  gems  more  rich  than  idle  pearls,  and  seld 
Have  crowned  kings  such  inborn  royalty, 

As  the  free  tiller  of  the  unbought  soil, 
Who  from  his  rich  soul  casteth  lavishly 

New  forms  of  Beauty  with  unwearied  toil : 
Bend  with  high  heart,  and  bravely,  to  thy  task, 
And  Luxury  pale  the  like  as  a  proud  boon  shall  ask. 

While  pleasant  care  my  yielding  soil  receives, 

Other  delights  the  open  soul  may  find; 
On  the  high  bough  the  daring  Hang-bird  weaves 

Her  cunning  cradle  rocking  in  the  wind; 
The  arrowy  Swallow  builds  beneath  the  eaves, 

Her  clay-wall'd  grotto  with  soft  feathers  lined; 
The  dull-red  Robin  under  sheltering  leaves 

Her  bowl-like  nest  to  sturdy  limbs  doth  bind; 


THE     G  A  RDE  X.  169 

And  many  Songsters,  worth  a  name  in  song. 

Plain  homely  Birds,  my  Boy-love  sanctified, 
On  hedge  and  tree,  and  grassy  bog,  prolong 

Sweet  loves  and  cares,  in  carols  sweetly  plied: 
In  such  dear  strains  their  simple  natures  gush, 
That  through  my  heart  at  once  all  tear-blest  memories 
rush. 

Merrily  sings  the  fluttering  Bob-o-link. 

Whose  trilling  song  above  the  meadow  floats; 
The  eager  air  speeds  tremulous  to  drink 

The  bubbling  sweetness  of  the  liquid  notes. 
Whose  silver  cadences  arise  and  sink, 

Shift,  glide  and  shiver,  like  the  trembling  motes 
In  the  full  gush  of  sunset.     One  might  think 

Some  potent  charm  had  turned  the  auroral  flame 
Of  the  night-kindling  North  to  melody, 

Which  in  one  gurgling  rush  of  sweetness  came 
Mocking  the  ear,  as  once  it  mock'd  the  eye, 

With  varying  beauties  twinkling  fitfully : 
Low  hovering  in  the  air  his  song  he  sings. 
As  if  he  shook  it  from  his  trembling  wings. 

In  Boyhood  oft  I  shook  with  foolish  dread, 
When  the  long  shadow  of  the  cypress  trees 
Came  creeping  on  by  slow  and  sure  degrees, 

15* 


170  THE      GARDEN. 

Till  their  high  tops  o'er  all  my  Garden  spread. 
As  sun  by  sun  sunk  in  its  dying  bed; 

"Will  there  not  come  a  deeper  night  than  these, 

When  the  great  darkness  all  the  days  shall  seize, 
And  never  morning  rise  again  V  I  said. 
Then  would  I  murmur  'gainst  the  blameless  shade. 

For  smothering  sweet  Day  in  its  heavy  murk, 
And  weep  that  golden  Light  was  so  waylaid 

By  ruffian  Glooms  that  in  the  wood  did  lurk. 
For  every  eve  my  trustless  Soul  did  fright 
With  sad  foretokens  of  a  time-long  night. 

Now  solemn  Beauty  all  the  Spirit  awes, 
As  sunset  glories  gild  the  eternal  green 
Of  the  dark  cypress-grove,  shot  forth  between 

The  draperied  trunks,  where  faint  day  loves  to  pause 

Through  the  long  aisles  and  breathing  corridors 
Streaming,  like  fire-gleams  of  an  altar  seen 
In  holy  ritual,  till  its  vapory  screen 

The  smoke  of  incense  o'er  the  temple  draws. 

Peace  hovers  there,  o'er  all  those  golden  aisles. 
Pure,  as  the  first  dream  in  the  Land  of  Rest; 

Day.  like  the  righteous  man  expiring,  smiles. 
And  the  dun  shades,  no  more  in  terror  drest, 

Stretch  their  long  arms  to  point,  far  as  they  may, 

To  the  Eternal  Source  of  unextinguished  day. 


THE      GARDEN.  171 

I  cannot  think  that  what  the  heart,  made  pure 

By  trial,  loves,  shall  ever  pass  away; 
From  golden  deeps,  whose  floods  eterne  endure, 

Wells  up  the  light  spring  of  each  fleeting  day ; 
An  infinite  Beauty  underlies,  be  sure, 
Earth's  transient  hues,  which  seem  its  ocean-spray ; 
They  are  but  twilight  gleams — the  clare-obscure, 

Where  dusk  Time  meets  the  glories  of  FOR-AYE: 
Ye  loved  of  earth,  flower,  bird,  and  dying  Song. 

Though  now  I  linger  with  a  sad  farewell. 
Ye  have  but  gone  to  lure  my  Soul  along, 

To  where  your  full  paternal  beauties  dwell ; 
Slowly  I  follow,  showering  fond  tears  down. 
As  one  who  leaves  his  loved  cot  for  a  crown. 


THE  FIRE-STEED. 

WHERE  rise  the  tones  of  yon  mingled  crowd 

The  Fire-Steed  stands  impatient  and  proud : — 

The  hot  breath  rolls  from  his  nostrils  wide, 

As  deeply  he  drinks  of  the  gurgling  tide : 

Before  the  flight  of  the  wind  he  has  come, 

Afar  from  the  town  and  its  ceaseless  hum; 

He  has  called  the  strength  of  the  wave  and  wood, 

The  tall  white  pine  and  the  leaping  flood. 

To  make  the  sinews  of  iron  strong, 

Which  hurry  his  snake-like  length  along, 

And  send  a  thrill,  quick,  sudden,  and  warm 

With  conscious  life,  through  his  giant  form. 

He  waits  the  touch  of  the  practised  hand 

Which  guides  his  flight  through  the  wondering  land, 

And  labors  his  broad  and  mighty  breast. 

With  his  fiery  breathing  half  suppressed. 

Stretch  thy  nerves  of  steel,  and  speed  ! 

Wherefore  pause,  thou  terrible  steed /l 

u Clank,  clank,  clank!"    Up  brake,  and  away! 

Time  moves  on  leaden  wings  while  you  stay. 


THE     FIRE-STEED.  173 

From  the  crystal  fount  he  hath  drunk  his  fill, 

With  a  quicker  leap  his  pulses  thrill. — 

And  his  unchained  breath  rolls  free  and  fast, 

As  he  goes  to  race  with  the  flying  blast. 

With  a  firm,  slow  tread,  he  moves  along, 

Like  a  giant  plying  his  sinews  strong.      \  * 

Now  with  a  swifter  glide  he  goes, 

While  his  soft  white  mane  on  the  zephyr  flows  • 

And  now  his  spirit  is  up  in  wrath, 

And  fast  he  thunders  along  his  path ! 

"  Kizz— kizz."  away  !  away  ! 

Like  the  lightning's  flash  or  the  meteor's  play ; 

Bounding  down  with  a  rush  and  leap, 

And  hurrying  on  in  his  terrible  sweep, 

Through  the  hills  and  over  the  vales — 

"  Whiz-a-whiz,"  over  the  sounding  rails. 

Away  for  your  life !  from  his  lightning  course ! 

He  is  coming  right  on  with  a  hurricane's  force  ; 

His  white  mane  back  on  the  cleft  air  flung, 

While  the  warning  is  spoke  from  his  iron  tongue, 

"  Ting-a-ring  — ding-a-ting — ting-a-ring-ding  !" 

Off  from  the  track  while  the  merry  tones  ring  ! 

I  see  the  flash  of  his  fiery  eye, 

As  he  sweeps  with   the  breath  of  the  whirlwind  by. 

On  and  on  in  his  proud  career, 

Like  a  crag  shot  off  from  a  comet's  sphere. 


174 


THE    FIRE-STEED. 


His  breathing  is  quick,  and  his  chainless  heel 
Treads  down  the  strength  of  the  bending  steel : 
And  he  pours  the  smoke  of  his  nostrils  back. 
As  he  thunders  down  on  the  trembling  track. 
Right  on  hath  the  panting  charger  sped, 
And  nought  but  the 'jar  of  his  rapid  tread, 
And  the  distant  tone  of  his  startling  neigh, 
Can  tell  where  the  Fire  steed  passed  away. 
1841. 


THE   LITTLE   WORKERS. 

THERE  are  merry  little  spirits  in  innumerable  swarms, 
Of  an  essence  so  divine,  and  so  wholly  crystalline, 
The  fancyless  know  nothing  of  their  volatile  forms; 

Are  faithless  of  their  being,  in  their  own  dull  seeing, 
And    deem    the   thrill   a   madness,  which   the    Poet's 

heart  warms, 
As  the  glance    of    their   dance,  for    a  flash  as  they 

advance, 

With    overwhelming    Beauty  his  brain   and  jDosom 
storms. 

They  are  busy  in  the  forests,  in  the  morning   of  the 

year, 

When  the  relics  of  decay  are  hurrying  away, 
And  the  eager  little  buds  so  daringly  appear ; 

They  crowd  in   every  budling — all   emulously  hud- 

Jing, 

With  its  juices  and  its  hues. — each  toiling  in  his  sphere  5 
As  a  girl  would  unfurl  her  every  fettered  curl, 
They  ope  the  prisoned  season  to  the  merry- hearted  seer. 


176  THE    LITTLE     WORKERS. 

They  are  busy  in    the  shower,  when  the  cloud  is  on 

its  track; — 

Each  governing  a  ball  of  the  water  in  its  fall — 
And  they  shout  their  tiny  glee  when  the  bright  globes 

Crack, 
Into    white   spray  flashing,  with   a   music   in   their 

plashing, 

While  the  sheets  of  the  shower  from  the  sky  hang  slack  j 
And  they  sing,  as  they  spring  for  their  homes,  on 

the  wing, 
Till  the  green  earth  laughs  with  the  merry,  merry  pack  ! 

They  are  busy  at  the  brook,  as  it  glimmers  in  the  dell ; 
And  they  pour  its  sunny  drops  from  a  million  little 

cups — 

Then  dance  upon  the  ripples  of  the  tide  as  they  swell ; 
They  attune    the    tiny  tinkle    of  the  reed-shivered 

wrinkle, 

And  the  gurgle  in  the  gravel  of  a  moss-hidden  well: 
How  their    bands   clap   their   hands    till  the    frolic 

water  stands 
Like  joy,  mute  for  depth,  in  the  pool  where  it  fell ! 

Ye  may  see  them   in   our   mornings,  on   the  edges  of 

the  mist, 

When  its  buddings,  as  of  pearl,  into  roses  unfurl, 
And  the  earth  turns  gold  to  the  mighty  Alchemist; 


THE     LITTLE     WORKERS.  177 

So  gorgeously  enfolden,  in  rosy  light  and  golden, 
They  are  drunken   with  the   glory   by  whose   beams 
they  exist : 

Hue  by  hue  from  the  view  they  are  lost  in  the  blue. 
Like  a  loved  one  of  us  by  the  Death-god  kiss'd. 

They  are  busy  in  the  clouds,  with  their  many  shaded 

hues  j 

In  the   meadow,  in  the  air — they  are  busy  every 
where, 
From  the  sphering  of  a  star,  to  the   sphering  of  the 

dews ; 

But  the  little  sprites  are  lurking,  with  a  subtler  under 
working, 

In  the  cunning  human  brain,  and  its  fancies  interfuse 
With  their  higher  vital  fire,  and  the  sparkles  which 

aspire 

To  the  Spirit  of  their  spirits — to  the  glory  which  we 
choose. 


16 


DUALITY. 

CALM,  two-handed,  self-possessed, 

In  their  vital  center, 
Being's  forces  work  or  rest. 

And  to  all  things  enter; 
Light  and  shadow,  worst  and  best, 
Wed  their  mutual  interest, 
And  throughout  creation  stand 
On  their  Parent's  either  hand. 

Into  nature  flows  a  power, 
Outward  flows  a  beauty; 
Things  whose  life  is  but  an  hour, 

Yet  fulfil  their  duty, 
Taking  in  their  little  dower, 
Cold  or  heat,  sunlight  or  shower, 
And  returning,  to  boon  Nature, 
Aptitude  of  work  or  feature. 

Life  is  dual,  but  the  goods 
Come  not  paired  together ; 

Twins,  but  differing  in  moods, 
Bears  the  great  World-Mother; 


DUALITY.  179 

Alternating  neighborhoods, 
Ebb  and  flow  of  being's  floods : 
Hope,  that  bears  its  shadow,  Fear ; 
Life,  whose  bridegroom,  Death,  is  near; 

Daylight  with  her  locks  of  yellow, 

Wedding  the  dun  gloaming — 
Desdemona  and  Othello 

Into  nature  coming  ; 

Brow-knit  Doubt,  whose  sweet  yoke-fellow 
Faith  is  ;  Discord  with  his  mellow- 
Throated  consort,  Music,  blend  j 
So,  through  all  things  without  end, 

Good  and  ill  in  mystic  bands, 

Fact  and  hollow  seeming, 
Walk  together  with  linked  hands, 

Losing  and  redeeming ; 
Feeding  ruin's  desert  sands 
From  the  wealth  of  greenest  lands, 
And  returning  crowned  from  thence 
With  a  new  magnificence. 

Nature's  law  is,  give  and  take, 

Using,  never  keeping ; 
Lending  for  the  borrower's  sake  j 

Sowing  without  reaping; 


180  DUALITY. 

Leaves  the  dew's  pavilion  make, 
Dews  the  flowers'  thirsting  slake, 
Flowers  give  odor  to  the  air, 
Air  divides  it  everywhere. 

All  have  some  good,  nothing  all  j 

Having's  taxed  of  Heaven, 
Swift  is  slender,  keen  is  small, 

Kind  is  overdriven; 
Rarest  cates  are  sure  to  pall, 
Greenest  summer  has  its  fall, 
Storms  are  eloquent  but  fearful, 
Lore  is  deep,  but  rarely  cheerful. 

Every  thing  is  at  some  time, 
Nothing  always,  sweetest  j 
The  most  precious  in  their  prime, 

To  their  end  are  fleetest ; 
Plague  devours  the  sunniest  clime, 
Terror  glooms  with  the  sublime, 
Day's  fire  fadeth  to  night's  embers — 
Yet  in  stars  its  life  remembers. 

Through  and  through  the  woof  of  ill 
Runs  the  thread  of  goodness : 

Winds  that  shake  the  winged  mill, 
Feed  us  with  their  rudeness; 


DUALITY.  181 

Frosts,  that  Autumn  blossoms  kill, 
Ope  the  nut- burs  on  the  hill; 
Griefs,  that  settled  heart-swards  tear. 
Fit  for  greener  blessings  there ! 

And  the  like  innative  check 

With  the  good  abideth, 
Soundest  rind,  without  a  speck, 

A  diseased  core  hideth ; 
Calmest  seas  have  many  a  wreck, 
Highest  hills  the  dizziest  peak, 
Sweetest  lays  the  saddest  tale, 
Tenderest  voice  the  shrillest  wail. 

Honey  lures  the  armed  bee, 

Wealth,  the  secret  robber ; 
Father  of  the  wildest  glee, 

Is  the  saddest  sobber; 
Thoughts  of  grandest  prophecy 
Verge  upon  insanity, 
And  the  holiest  joy  we  know — 
Love  itself — is  kin  to  wo. 

Hopeless  fear,  and  fearless  hope, 

See  not  nature  truly; 
Dual,  from  the  lowest  up, 

All  her  works  rise  duly; 
16* 


182  DUALITY. 

And  the  wise  their  spirits  ope 
So  to  Being's  sense  and  scope. 
They  can  smile  at  grief,  and  weep 
At  their  joys  so  calm  and  deep. 


HYMNS   FOR   A   MOTHER. 

I. — THE    DEAD    BOY-BABE. 

THERE  is  mourning  in  the  hall, 
Where,  beneath  the  snowy  pall, 
Waiting  for  the  hungry  grave, 
Like  a  lily  on  the  wave, 
Sleeps  an  infant's  tiny  form, 
Now  with  life  no  longer  warm. 

Like  a  pearly  morning  Rose, 
Sweetly  taketh  he  repose, 
Wet  with  Sorrow's  holy  dew, 
Which  the  night  of  trial  drew 
From  the  overbending  sky 
Of  a  mother's  earnest  eye. 

Who  may  fathom  now  her  grief? 
Who  may  dare  to  bring  relief? 
Who  can  reach  her  wounded  heart, 
Nor  inflict  a  deeper  smart? 


$ 

184-  HYMNS      FOR      A      MOTHER. 

Far  away,  ye  thoughtless,  go, 
Break  not  on  her  hallowed  wo: 
Leave  her  bending,  and  alone. 
At  the  footstool  of  the  Throne, 
Where  amidst  the  burning  Seven, 
Holy  Jesus  maketh  Heaven. 
He  will  pour  the  healing  balm, 
And  her  troubled  spirit  calm; 
He  will  bless  the  tears  which  fall 
On  the  cold  and  virgin  pall, 
And  her  wasting  grief  control 
To  the  whitening  of  her  soul. 

There  is  mourning  o'er  the  tomb; 
Where  the  Bud  which  could  not  bloom 
Ere  its  sun  went  down  the  west, 
Folds  its  beauty  into  rest, 
Till  its  life  again  be  born 
In  that  sweet  Reviving  Morn, 
When  the  Sun  of  Righteousness 
Rises  to  redeem  and  bless. 

There  are  tears  which  have  been  wrung 
From  the  bosoms  of  the  young, 
To  whom  holy  Love  had  brought 
Deeper  bliss  than  Hope  had  thought, 


HYMNS     FOR     A     MOTHER.  185 

Fading  now  in  wo  severe, 
More  than  Doubt  had  dared  to  fear. 
Weep  they  sorely  in  the  cot 
Where  their  little  one  is  not, 
With  a  keenness  of  distress, 
Nigh  to  utter  wretchedness. 

There  the  little  cradle  lies, 
Whence  their  Baby's  dawning  eyes 
Shed  his  blissful  memories  through 
Their  divine  and  deepening  blue; 
Were  his  snowy  blanket,  there, 
Spread  with  less  maternal  care, 
You  might  almost  deem  that  he 
Curled  beneath  it  dreamingly. 
But,  alas!  a  Mother  knows 
In  that  still,  and  cold  repose, 
There  is  nothing  like  the  rest 
Of  the  heaving  little  breast, 
Which,  above  the  folded  pillow, 
Mounted  like  a  tiny  billow. 

There  his  silent  playthings  are, 
And  his  baby-robes  are  there: 
Gently  lay  them  all  away, — 
Wo's  the  mother's  heart  to-day : 


186  HYMNS      FOR      A      MOTHER. 

Now  her  darling  boy  is  gone. 
They  are  sad  to  look  upon; 
And  they  waken  grief  afresh, 
Wearying  to  soul  and  flesh. 
In  a  day  of  fairer  dawn. 
When  her  keener  pang  is  gone, 
And  her  spirit's  deep  distress 
Mellowed  into  quietness, 
These  shall  be  mementos  dear 
Of  his  brief  abiding  here, 
Calling  to  her  inward  eyes 
Sadly  pleasing  memories. 

There  is  sorrow  in  the  cot — 
Sorrow  that  despaireth  not; 
For  the  mourners,  faint  and  sad, 
May  look  upward  and  be  glad. 
Lo;  in  Heaven  is  holy  joy 
Over  the  returning  boy: — 
Wingless  wanderer  to  earth, 
From  the  country  of  his  birth, 
Turning  backward,  ere  his  feet 
Weary  of  the  coming  heat, 
And  the  ever-thronging  strife, 
In  the  solemn  inarch  of  life. 


HYMNS      FOR      A     MOTHER.  187 

Folded  in  the  arms  of  love, 
To  the  blooming  realms  above, 
Homeward  he  hath  gone  away, 
And,  no  longer  swathed  in  clay, 
Lightly  prints  the  rosy  street 
With  the  tread  of  infant  feet. 
While  along  the  green  he  trips, 
From  the  blooming  of  his  lips, 
Melodies  for  odors,  fill 
All  the  airs  which  o'er  him  thrill. 

Cherubs  young  and  heavenly  fair. — 
See,  they  gather  round  him  there ; 
Hand  in  hand,  a  lovely  ring, 
O'er  the  blue  they  flit  and  sing, 
And,  around  the  sinless  boy, 
Clap  their  little  wings  for  joy. 
Sweeter  sound  the  lyres  of  Heaven 
As  a  gladder  song  is  given. 
While  the  ever-blooming  groves, 
Where  the  r.hoir  seraphic  roves. 
Back  from  every  quivering  limb, 
Echo  to  a  nobler  hymn. 


188  HYMNS      FOR      A      MOTHER. 

ii. — THE  BABE'S  WELCOME  IN  HEAVEN. 

Mother,  mourning  for  thy  child. 
Let  thy  heart  be  reconciled; 
Saints  redeemed,  and  spirits  blest, 
Call  thy  lost  one  into  rest. 
Hark!  upon  the  air  along 
Melts  a  low  melodious  song, 
Blending  its  diviner  sound 
With  the  tones  which  float  around 
On  the  perfumed  atmosphere, 
Heard  not  by  the  common  ear. 
Now  it  trembles  o:er  the  blue, 
Indistinctly  shivering  through, 
Like  the  last  notes,  from  afar, 
Of  a  silver-strung  guitar; 
Now  its  chime  is  faintly  heard, 
Like  the  carols  of  a  bird. 

"Welcome!  welcome  to  another, 
From  the  world  a  ransomed  brother, 
Plucked  before  the  frost  of  wo 
Laid  his  budding  beauties  low, 
Or  the  stain  of  earthly  crime 
Marred  the  guileless  spirit's  prime; 
Called  away  to  be  at  rest 
On  the  dear  Redeemer's  breast. 


H  Y  M  N  S    F  O  R     A    M  0  T  H  E  R  .  189 

"Welcome  from  a  world  of  sin, 
Little  Brother,  welcome  in, 
Where  the  loving  and  the  pure 
And  the  holy  will  endure ; 
And  the  ransomed  of  the  earth — 
Children  of  the  better  birth — 
From  the  withered  son  of  old, 
To  the  babe  in  swaddlings  rolled — 
Stir  the  Heaven's  serenest  calm, 
With  a  rapture-breathing  psalm. 

"Rosy  children,  many  a  score, 
Who  have  bless'd  the  world  before, 
Cheering,  with  their  heavenly  smilq, 
Mother-hearts  a  little  while, 
Here  they  join  in  radiant  bands, 
Here  they  clap  their  infant  hands, 
And  their  songs  of  simple  praise 
To  the  blessed  Jesus  raise, 
Who  of  old  unto  his  breast 
Meekly  fplded  them    and  bless'd. 
Come  and  join  them   little  Brother; 
Linking  hands  with  one  another, 
Come,  and  as  you  bound  along, 
Sing  aloud  the  holy  song — 
Sung  by  all  the  hosts  above — 
Praises  of  Redeeming  Love. 
17 


190  HYMNS      FOR      A     MOTHER. 

Ci  Come  unto  the  arms  of  Him 
In  whose  light  the  sun  is  dim  j 
He  was  once  a  little  child, 
Human,  and  yet  undefiled ; 
Long  ago  he  went  to  bless 
Yonder  world  of  wretchedness, 
Of  whose  darkness,  sin  and  wo, 
It  has  not  been  thine  to  know  : 
There  he  bore  the  load  of  life 
With  its  stem  and  earnest  strife, 
Teaching  man  the  loving  faith 
Which  will  blunt  the  sting  of  death ; 
There  He  lived,  and  there  He  died, 
Hunted,  scourged  and  crucified, 
That  a  stubborn  world  might  bow 
And  become  like  such  as  thou. 

"  Come  and  meet  thy  elder  Brother, 
Him  like  whom  there  is  no  other ; 
He  will  make  thy  lips  to  know 
Where  the  purest  waters  flow, 
And  the  sweetest  fruits  divine 
In  their  golden  clusters  shine ; 
Guide  thy  wandering  feet  and  eyes, 
Down  the  vales  of  Paradise, 
Where  the  richest  meadows  bloom — 
Hushed  beneath  their  own  perfume, — 


HYMNS      FOR     A      MOTHER.  191 

And  the  Sabbath  air  is  fanned 
By  the  holiest  cherub-band. 
He  will  teach  thy  infant  tongue 
How  to  hymn  the  eternal  song, 
And  within  His  loving  heart 
Fold  thee,  never  to  depart. 

"  Come  " — but  oh  the  blessed  tone 
Of  the  Spirit-choir  is  gone  ! 
And  the  vision  melts  away, 
Like  the  beams  of  dying  day. 
Yet  its  holy  light  hath  given 
To  the  soul  a  hue  of  heaven, 
As  the  sunset,  on  its  track, 
Flings  a  cloud  of  glory  back; 
And  the  song's  melodious  chime 
Cheers  the  heavy  heart  of  time, 
From  a  world  of  varied  bliss 
Faintly  echoing  in  this. 

Let  the  stricken  Spirit  now 
With  its  grief  no  longer  bow; 
But,  in  newer,  purer  faith, 
Mount  triumphant  over  death, 
And  the  fear  which  palls  the  tomb 
In  the  sable  garb  of  gloom ; 


192  HYMNS     FOR     A     MOTHER. 

So  on  earth  there  shall  be  given 
Glimpses  of  the  upper  Heaven, 
And  a  Life  which  prophesies 
Of  the  Eternal  Paradise 
Where  the  dear,  departed  boy,' 
Sweetly  hymns  a  Hymn  of  Joy. 

Ill THE    FIRST    BORN. 

Mystery!  Mystery! 

Holy  and  strange ; 
What  a  life-history, 

Fruitful  of  change, 

Arid  endless  of  range, 

Is  folded  here,  sweet  within  sweet,  like  a  blossom. 
Darling  of  Paradise, 

Pure  as  its  dew, 
Drop'd  from  the  starry  skies, 

With  their  rich  hue 

In  thine  eyes'  blue — 
O  dearer  than  life  is  thy  weight  on  my  bosom. 

Beauty,  how  simple, 

Yet  holy  and  grand, 
Curls  every  dimple 

On  white  cheek  and  hand, 

As  eddies,  breeze-fanned, 
Are  curled  on  a  lakelet  of  full-budded  lilies; 


HYMNS     FOR     A     MOTHER.  193 

White  as  the  moon  is 

Thy  slumberous  lid, 
Bright  as  the  noon  is 

The  glance  by  it  hid, 

And  as  potent  to  bid 
New  bloom  to  a  heart  where  unlove  with  its  chill  is. 

Darling  and  treasure! 

O,  not  for  the  rose, 
Lily  and  azure, 

That  deck  thy  repose — 

Or  gleam  when  it  goes, 

Call  I  thee  Darling— 0,  God-lent  and  hallowed,— 
But  for  the  wonder  which 

Weds  thee  to  Him, 
Deep-folded  under  each 

Feature  and  limb, 

And  seeming  to  swim 
In  depths  of  thy  bosom  that  heaves,  many-billowed  : — 

But  for  the  suffering, 

Out  of  whose  fire 
Rose  the  best  offering 
Of  my  desire, 
Retaught  to  aspire, 

And  came  the  white  Sanctity  of  the  Maternal; 
17* 


194  HYMNS     FOR    A     MOTHER. 

For  the  deep  thrilling 

Of  Hope  and  of  Fear, 
In  the  fulfilling 

Of  my  divine  sphere. 

That  holily  near 
Is  bound  by  thy  life  to  the  Father  Supernal, 

Tenderly,  tenderly, 
Thee  will  I  keep! 

Purely  to  render  thee, 
In  thy  pure  sleep, 
To  the  angels  who  steep 
Thy  lids  in  repose  and  an  earthly  forgetting  j 

Leaving  or  living, 

To  yield,  when  I  must, 

In  a  fit  giving, 

My  beautiful  trust, 
As  unstained  with  the  dust, 
As  spirit  may  be  in  a  clay-moulded  setting. 

God  keep  and  shield  thee, 

Sweet  Baby  mine ! 
Spirit-life  yield  thee 

From  his  Divine, 

In  blue  eyes  to  shine, 
Serenely  as  stars  through  the  azure  night-arches 


HYMNS     FOR     A     MOTHER.  195 

Angels,  with  winglets 

White  and  unseen, 
Flutter  thy  ringlets 

Made  gold  in  the  sheen 

Of  their  eyes,  starry  keen, 
As  they  guide  thee,  my  Baby,  in  life's  rugged  marches. 


IV. —  THE    FIRST    SMILE. 

Turn  away  the  profanation 

Of  unsympathizing  eyes, 
Set  with  icy  speculation 

Where  my  lily  Baby  lies, 

Overflowed  with  phantasies 

Of  divinest  birth- 
Dreams  that  down  his  wordless  brain 
Tremble  like  a  golden  rain, 
Stirring  lip  and  dimpled  cheek 

Into  eddies  of  fine  mirth. 

All  too  fine  to  speak ! 

Ah,  I  see  thee,  and  I  fed  thee, 
0  thou  roseate  first  Smile  ! 

How  thy  tiny  circles  wheel  me 
Up,  where  cherubs,  in  long  file, 
All  my  Baby's  thoughts  beguile 


196  HYMNS     FOR    A     MOTHER. 

With  their  loving  ways.- 
Shaking  down  rich  flakes  of  light, 
Feather-like,  from  wingiets  bright, 
Round  my  darling's  living  bed, 
Till  for  joy  he  closer  lays 

To  my  breast  his  head! 

Sweeter  light  than  ever  fluttered, 

Timorous,  through  the  barren  sky, 
When  the  anthems,  planet-uttered, 
Spoke  in  silence  to  the  eye — 
Or  flashed  pale  Aurora  by, 

In  the  northern  night, 
Bubbles  up  from  spirit  deeps, 
And  so,  fountain-like,  o'erleaps 
The  sweet  mouth  and  all  the  form 
Of  my  beautiful  Delight, 

Flowing  out  love- warm. 

'Tis  the  flush  of  new  creation, 
'Tis  a  Sun-Soul's  rolling  up, 

Pouring  light's  divine  libation 
Over  young  Life's  brimming  cup, 
As  from  earth's  horizon  top 
Overflows  the  day. 

Dimples  open  into  bloom 

In  the  track  its  beams  illume, 


HYMNS     FOR     A     MOTHER.  197 

And  the  odorous  wreaths  untwist 
Their  dim  folds,  and  float  away 
Like  the  morning  mist. 

Ah,  thou  need'st  not  wake  to  tell  it 

By  the  laughing  of  thine  eye, 
Into  mine,  until  thou  swell  it 

Full  with  tears  of  ecstasy, — 

Nor  with  palms  struck  daintily, 

Baby  !  — for  thy  Dream 
Shone  out  clearly,  through  the  fresh 
Unopacity  of  flesh 
New  and  pure  from  hands  of  God, 

As  it  were  a  lucid  stream 

From  a  crystal  sod. 

I  have  felt  the  warmer  pulses 

Of  the  hopeful  heart  of  Spring, 
When  they  bore,  with  swift  revulses, 

Far  away,  the  Frigid  King; 

Felt  the  thrill  o'  the  forward  swing 

Of  joy's  opening  gates, 
In  my  girlhood;  and  have  known — 
Deeper  yet — the  awakening  tone 
Of  Love's  cithern- voiced  call; 

But  thy  sweet  first  Smile  creates 
Bliss  above  them  all ! 


198  HYMNS     FOR     A     MOTHER. 

Smile  on,  Memory-haunted  Baby, 
In  the  heaven  thou  hast  not  left ! 

And  in  after  years,  it  may  be, 
Grave  Mnemosyne  with  deft 
Fingers  may  untwine  the  weft 

Of  thy  wordless  thought ; 

And  some  Muse  of  her's  may  teach 

All  thy  smiles  to  flow  in  speech. 

Tempered  to  the  sounding  lyre, 
And  with  tones  celestial,  caught 

From  the  Eternal  Choir ! 


TABLEAUX. 

-• 

I. — PURE    LOVE. 

WITH  brow  serene  as  Summer's  cloudless  morn, 
Just  ere  the  Sun  rides  up  the  throbbing  East ; 
With  eyes  that  bend  meek-lidded  on  the  least, 

Yet  never  shrinking  from  the  proudest  born; 

Lips  from  whose  drawn  bow  flies  no  shaft  of  scorn; 
Bearing  and  tread  obedient  to  the  stress 
Of  noble  thought,  instinct  with  queeriliness, 

Her  vesture  floating  like  the  wind-waved  corn, 

A  seraph  comes,  fresh-hearted  as  the  rain, 
Or  lily  fragrant  with  its  dew  till  noon; 

Her  white  arm  stretched  to  many  a  pure-eyed  twain, 
With  the  warm  blessing  of  divine  Love's  boon; 

Simple  delights  float  round  her  everywhere, 
Like  the  mild  odors  from  her  half-bound  hair. 

II. — SENSUAL    LOVE. 

Beneath  a  low  front,  where  the  loosened  curls 
Lurk,  snare-like,  in  laborious  unconcern, 
Large  eyes  their  languid  orbs  voluptuous  turn, 


200  TABLEAUX. 

Till  the  fired  brain  of  giddy  Folly  whirls; 
With  conscious  tempting  her  full  lip  unfurls 

Its  honied  blossoms,  and  the  red  cheeks  bum 

With  pride  and  shame,  whose  fire,  ye  well  discern, 
Sullies  their  crystal'd  amethysts  and  pearls. 
Her  mien  invites,  while  her  just  lifted  hand 

Repels,  coquetting,  but  to  beckon  back; 
On  purples  couched,  by  dizzying  odors  fanned, 

She  sighs  her  breath,  with  poison  on  its  track, 
And  hearts  are  withered  in  its  hot  simoon, 
Like  dewless  flowers  amid  a  tropic  noon. 

III. MORAL    HEROISM. 

He  stands  before  me  in  his  royal  mood, 
With  eyes  that  front  the  world  with  level  light, 
Unquailed  by  hate,  and  lit,  in  Envy's  spite, 

With  the  frank  beauty  of  infantine  good ; 
His  bold  brow  threatful  only  with  the  might 

Of  its  incumbent  thoughts — an  eagle  brood 

Nursed  on  that  crag  in  lofty  solitude; 

His  lip  firm  bent,  yet  stirred  as  with  the  flight 

Of  inward  smiles.    His  tall  and  upright  form, 
From  the  set  foot-sole  to  the  swerveless  brow, 
Glows  with  a  manhood  that  can  never  bow 

To  the  launched  thunders  of  oppression's  storm, 
Yet  o'er  the  weak  and  worn  as  lithely  bends, 
As  a  green  willow  o'er  its  pale  flower-friends. 


TABLEAUX.  201 

IV. — MARTIAL    HEROISM. 

An  eye,  bloodshot  and  still,  with  angry  glare 
Threats  Heaven — encaverned  in  the  shaggy  side 
Of  brows  that  slope  back  to  the  steeps  of  pride; 

His  hard  cheek  scorns  alike  the  lightning-glare 

And  Mercy's  sunshine,  poured  availless  there ; 
Clenched  teeth,  and  rigid  lips,  and  nostrils  wide, 
As  -of  a  war-horse,  and  the  pitiless  gride 

Of  his  armed  heel  on  bosoms  red  and  bare, 

Betray  the  spirit  of  that  iron  frame, 
Whose  hand  is  welded  to  the  steel  it  lifts. 

Blood  gurgles  down  the  steep  tracks  of  his  fame, 
From  human  clay,  piled  high  in  livid  drifts. 

Rash  men  adore  him,  and  his  image  fold 

In  reverent  arms,  and  crown  with  purple  and  gold. 


18 


THE  GROUND  SWELL. 

THOUGH  the  moon  in  silver  silence, 
Floods  the  highlands  and  the  islands 

With  a  peace  that  cannot  jar, 
On  the  gates  of  Narragansett, 
Storm-advanced  to  the  onset, 

Plunge  the  billows  from  afar. 

Heavily  the  long  swell  rages 
On  the  ledges,  and  the  sedges 

Scattered,  strow  the  foamy  beach ; 
Many  a  garden  fair  it  crosses 
Of  bright  mosses,  which  it  tosses 

Up  to  human  eye  and  reach. 

Many  a  beauty  have  the  waters 

Pluck'd  and  brought  us,  aye  and  taught  us 

Of  a  wealth  we  never  knew, 
Which,  in  granite  earthquake-chasm'd 
Deep  embosomed,  sweetly  blossomed 

To  the  dark  concealing  blue ; 


THE     GROUND    SWELL.  203 

Till  an  unseen  tempest,  urging 
The  wild  surging,  by  the  scourging 

Of  its  wind-lash,  cast  them  here, 
To  make  glad,  and  blest  moreover, 
Beauty's  lover,  though  they  suffer 

Martyr-pangs  to  give  him  cheer. 

When  a  heart  or  spirit  queenly 
Most  serenely  foldeth  inly 

The  white  calm  of  holy  thought, 
Little  are  our  souls  aware  of 
Any  jar  of  storms  afar  off, 

From  whose  tramp  are  throbbings  caught. 

0,  divine  deeds,  in  the  fitness 

Of  completeness,  pour  their  sweetness 

Round  our  gladdened  souls'  career; 
And  we  bless  the  new  revealing, 
Never  feeling  the  long  reeling 

Of  the  pangs  that  bore  it  here. 

Deepest  thoughts  of  love's  devotion 
Heave  like  ocean,  with  a  motion 

Grand  from  pulsings  of  a  storm ; 
All  the  thrills  which  Poets  lend  us, 
All  the  splendors  valor  renders, 

With  heart's  agony  are  warm. 


204  THE     GROUND    SWELL. 

Finest  feelings  which  we  cherish 
Nor  let  perish,  farthest  flourish 

From  the  taint  of  vulgar  reach ; 
And  the  woes  that  ruin  past  them 
As  to  blast  them,  only  cast  them 

Forth  like  sea-flowers  on  the  beach. 


WATER. 

LIFE-BLOOD  of  the  mighty  earth ! 
Flowing  from  creation's  birth ; 
Throbbingj  infinite  and  free, 
In  the  heart-beat  of  the  sea ; 
Pulsing  down  each  river-vein 
Of  the  green  enameled  plain: 
Stealing  up  from  deep  repose 
Through  the  crimson-bosomed  rose  j 
Glorious  thoUj  in  all  thy  forms  ! 
Whether  whirl'd  in  midnight  storm s. 
Or  by  wavelets  rock'd  to  rest 
On  the  snow-white  lily's  breast. 

On  thy  pearly  curtain  fold. 
Fringed  with  amaranth  and  gold, 
Sunset,  as  her  coursers  linger, 
Writes  her  tale  with  rosy  finger; 
And  a  blush  is  on  thy  mist. 
As  its  brow  is  warmly  kiss'd 
By  the  opening  lips  of  morning. 
In  the  fresh  love  of  its  dawning; 
18* 


206  WATER. 

Midnight  saw  its  waveless  deep 
Like  an  ocean  stretched  in  sleep, 
With  the  dark-green  trees  and  highlands 
Rising  o'er  its  breast  like  islands. 

Bride  of  Light !     0,  Protean  water, 
Lo  !  the  rainbow  is  thy  daughter, 
Clasping  thee  in  radiant  arms, 
Even  in  thy  hour  of  storms  j 
And  in  many  glittering  hues 
See  !  the  million-orbed  dews, 
Sisters  of  the  glorious  arch, 
Dance  along  thy  showery  march ; 
And  the  grass  gives  odors  sweet, 
Bathing  all  their  "twinkling  feet,:; 
As  it  bends  along  their  track, 
Till  the  light  winds  call  them  back. 

Every  old  and  gnarled  trunk 
In  whose  roots  thy  stream  is  drunk, 
Feels  along  its  breast  a  thrill, 
Creeping  unperceived  and  still, 
As  the  sun  with  magic  art 
Melts  into  its  frozen  heart ; 
Till  its  warm  and  hueless  blood. 
Crowding  into  leaf  and  bud, 
Clothes  in  green  each  giant  limb. 
Gorgeous  as  the  robes  that  swim 


WATER.  207 

Round  the  knights  of  Fairy-land ; 
By  the  breath  of  roses  fan'd. 

O7  thy  coming  down  is  sweet, 
When,  oppress'd  by  summer's  heat, 
Bowing,  every  herb  and  flower 
Prays  thee  for  the  pleasant  shower  ; 
See !  each  thirsting  plant  holds  up 
For  thy  gift  its  little  cup; 
While  on  every  grassy  spear, 
Hangs  in  light  a  grateful  tear, 
Orbs  of  beauty  bathed  in  gold 
On  thy  sun-lit  way  are  rolled, 
Each  fair  orb  a  mimic  world 
Through  the  sky  in  splendor  hurled. 

Dripping  down  the  mossy  well 
Where  the  cold  frog  loves  to  dwell; 
Bubbling  in  thy  granite  urn 
Where  the  day-beams  never  burn; 
Tinkling  in  the  pebbly  run, 
Grass-defended  from  the  sun, 
Rustling  in  the  little  fall, 
Thou  art  sweetly  musical; 
Never  bird  or  voice  divine 
Hath  a  gladder  tone  than  thine, 
Man  hath  richer  earth-gift  never — 
Ne'er  more  spurned  was  gift  or  Giver. 


THE  STORM-WALTZ. 


THE  fields  were  brown  with  Summer's  breathless  heat 

; 

And  sere  leaves,  in  their  first  faint  lisp 

Of  Autumn,  touched  their  edges  crisp. 
And  dry  grass  rustled  to  the  passers'  feet, 
While  withered  earth  against  the  brazen  sky 

Breathed  unseen  poisons  from  morass  and  fen, — 
Seemed  anger  burning  in  the  Sun's  red  eye, 

And  Hope's  torch  dying  in  the  eyes  of  men ; — 
Till,  on  a  morn  when  sultry  night  had  press'd, 
Like  a  hot  vapor,  on  the  sleeper's  breast, 
A  soothing  breath,  as  if  an  Angel's  wing 
Struck  the  dull  air  to  ripples,  'gan  to  sing 
Through  dusty  leaves,  and  moisten  their  pale  lips. 

Which,  to  their  frailest  tips, 
Felt  life  again,  even  as  a  gladness  slips, 
Down  human  pulses  at  the  breath  of  love ; 
And  they  who  woke  smiled  clear 

To  the  dark  skies  above,  which  frown'd  severe, 
A  moment  smiled  upon  the  tempest's  path — 
When  at  a  flash  the  dun  vault  split  in  wrath 


THE     STORM-WALTZ.  209 

Of  crackling  fires,  which  tore  their  dome  in  sunder, 
Shook  the  pained  sleepers  into  sudden  wonder, 
And  jar'd  the  wide  earth  with  their  trundling  thunder  ! 

Then  the  winds  smote 
The  shivering  forests,  with  their  writhing  lashes, 

The  wrung  boughs  seemed  to  float 
On  the  wild  breakers  of  the  storm, 
Whose  dash  of  spray,  o'er  the  black  form 
Of  reef-like  clouds,  was  the  keen  lightning's  flashes. 
Men  trembled  at  the  blue 
Unearthly  fires,  which  flew 
Like  the  hot  finger  of  Retributive  Wrath, 
In  menacing  gesture  shaken  from  the  folds 
Of  his  black  robe,  at  secret  holds 
Of  awful  guilt ;  and  though  the  crinkling  path 
Of  the  quick  Terrors  led  from  Heaven,  they  fell 
Rather  like  bursting  meteors  of  Hell, 
Than  aught  divine,  if  one  knew  not  how  clear 
Those  flames  should  purge  the  boiling  atmosphere. 

One  bolt  of  the  avenging  fire 
Ran  hissing  down  the  village  spire 
Like  a  red  serpent,  and  with  burning  tongue 
Singed  through  the  curtains  and  the  hallowed  Book, 
While  the  pursuing  thunders  shook 


210  THE     STORM -WALTZ. 

A  wide  breach  in  the  heavy  walls, 
Where  even  yet  the  mellow  daylight  falls. 
Though  the  poor  peasants  sigh 

To  see  the  ruin,  as  they  saunter  by : — 
The  thunders  broke,  as  earthquake  broke  before, 
The  iron  firmness  of  the  prison  door; 

Shivered  the  blind,  black  jail, 

Whose  windowless  brows  frowned  o'er  the  smiling  vale, 
And  men  looked  down  with  shuddering  awe  to  see 
How  the  keen  bolt  clove  down  their  gallows-tree, 

I  rose  among  my  trembling  peers, 
And,  if  not  all  unshaken  by  their  fears, 

Felt  more  a  wild  delight 
In  the  wild  power  of  storm  and  fire, 
Than  any  terror,  when  a  grander  sight 
Than  ever  dream  yet  granted  to  Desire, 
Grew  on  my  vision,  as  the  rising  sun 

Made  the  swift  clouds  a  glory  every  one. 
A  crushing  whirl  of  wind  and  rain 

And  eddying  vapors,  thunder-black, 
Was  mingling  all  the  western  plain 

With  its  own  boiling  rack; 

I  saw  the  sunlight  when  it  kiss'd 

The  roughest  edges  of  the  mist, 
And  how  the  tattered  hem 

Of  the  whirl'd  clouds  grew  rosy  as  a  gem. 


THE     STORM- WALTZ.  211 

At  first  a  blue  eye,  faint  and  very  dim, 
Seemed  into  light  an  instant's  flash  to  swim — 

A  serene  eye  that  startled  me 

With  memories  of  infancy; 
Then  a  white  arm  trembled  out 
From  the  white  clouds'  rolling  rout, 
Till  a  sudden  smoke-wreath  draped 
The  uncertain  form,  half-shaped; 

Meanwhile,  over  all,  the  sun 
Flung  his  floods  of  rose  and  pearl, 
And  the  noises  of  the  whirl 

Grew  harmonious  one  by  one. 

When  my  eye  had  lost  its  wonder, 
And  my  ear  grown  heedless  of  the  roar, 
In  a  long  pause  of  the  falling  thunder, 
Came  the  angel-glimpses  more  and  more. 

All  the  wide  plain,  where  the  storm 
Trailed  the  cloudy  foldings  of  its  form, 

Twinkled  with  the  glimpsing  feet 
Of  most  beautiful  beings,  seen 
Momently,  in  musical  beat, 
Gliding  tremulous  and  fleet 
Along  the  reviving  green, 
And  their  heaving  bosoms  heaved 

The  white  foldings  of  their  vests, 
Till  a  sudden  whirl  bereaved 


212  THE     STORM-WALTZ. 

The  delighted  eye 

Of  its  radiant  guests. 
As  they  floated  by, 
Into  vapor,  suddenly. 

Anon  the  bent  arch  of  that  three-fold  bridge, 

Whose  seven-fold  colors  glorify  the  world, 
Span'd  with  its  light— from  ridge  to  craggy  ridge 

Of  pier-like  clouds  embathed  in  gold — 
The  kindling  splendors  which  beneath  it  roll'd, 

Rounding  with  calm  the  loud  life  as  it  whirled  j 

The  long,  curved  sheets  of  rain 
Pictured  against  the  western  sky, 

Were  bent  like  full  sails  as  they  swept  the  plain 
In  intricate  circles,  which  my  open  eye 

Yet  knew  to  follow  in  their  spiral  mazes, 
That,  intervolved,  led  on  harmoniously, 
Twining  their  misty  strands  through  never  jarring  phases. 

Then  as  I  looked  to  trace  the  bending  line 
Of  falling  rain,  to  the  green  plain, 

Beneath  each  curved  column  a  divine 
And  beautiful  Being  danced  along  the  way, 
Airy  and  delicate  as  >t  were  the  spray 

Of  the  crushed  diamonds  shivering  on  the  grass, 

And  fashioned  into  form  as  the  bright  shower  did  pass. 


THE     STORM- WALTZ.  213 

Each  round  her  fellow  whirled, 

Like  little  eddies  curled 
Around  a  Swan's  white  bosom, 
Or  waving  Lily-blossom. 

Everywhere, 

Floating,  fluttering  in  the  air, 
Sparkling  with  a  thousand  hues, 
Flashed  their  skirts  of  molten  dews, 
Radiant  eyes  and  glorious  faces 
Lit  at  once  a  hundred  places, — 
Coming,  going,  fading,  glowing, 
Like  the  colors  in  the  flowing 
Stream  of  Autumn's  noonday  breath, 
Over  the  fluttering  leaves  arrayed  by  kingly  Death. 
Rounded  arms  of  white  entwined 

Veiled  forms  whose  faintest  traces 
Would  have  maddened  or  struck  blind 

Holy  Art  in  days  of  wonder, 
While  the  fair  ones  moved  in.  chases, 

Wheeling,  reeling,  and  crossing  under 
The  \vaving  shower-march,  swept  sublime 

In  measured  chime, 
As  they  waltzed  to  the  mellowed  thunder. 

Lightest  limbs  of  rarest  moulds, 
Pictured  in  the  fluctuant  folds 
19 


214  THE     STORM-WALTZ. 

Of  their  skirts  of  pearl-light,  seemed, 
In  their  motions  and  their  form, 

As  if  music,  Angel-dreamed, 

Had  leaped  forth,  alive  and  warm, 
To  bear  up  the  shapes  of  that  harmonious  storm. 
Not  rapider  patter'd  the  drops  that  beat 
On  the  kindling  grass,  than  their  sandaled  feet, 
Not  lither  the  long  grass  reared  its  head 
From  the  soft  shower-fall  than  their  buoyant  tread. 
Each  graceful  whirl  of  a  single  twain 
Was  type  of  the  full  dance  that  swept  the  plain, 

And  the  whole  bright  show, 

As  it  wheeled  below 
The  span  of  the  unmoved  rainbow-arch, 
Was  type  of  the  heavens  and  their  starry  march, 
Rolling  along,  unjarring  and  grand, 
Beneath  the  curve  of  God's  bended  hand- 

The  grass  grew  green  and  beautiful  as  a  gem 

Of  emerald,  and  the  flowers  more  clear 
Than  rubies,  when  their  lips  could  touch  the  hem 

Of  those  shower-angels'  garments;  all  the  sere 
Leaves  of  the  forest  glittered  with  the  sheen 

Of  dewy  starlets,  and  enameled  green, 
Which  crowded  all  the  boughs,  while   birds  sang  joy 
between. 


THE     STORM -WALTZ.  215 

Though  a  few  only  saw  the  music-dance, 
And  men  but  heard  the  wild  crash  of  undoing  ; 
With  no  revealings  of  the  calm  advance, 
Saw  but  the  diverse  aims,  or  aimless  whirls 
Of  Powers  whose  Maelstrom  hung  its  billowy  curls 
Over  their  homes  with  menaces  of  ruin,— 
The  serene  band  of  beautiful  Beings  passed, 
Too  glad  and  loving  to  repine  at  men; 
Knowing  the  glories  which  their  storm-waltz  cast 
Lavishly  round  them,  would  compel  at  last 
Human  thanksgivings,  though  we  murmured  then. 


ANTIQUES. 

I. TEARS. 

Go  Home  if  thou  hast  any  grief,  and  tell 

Thy  Father  what  it  is ; 
The  world  is  ill,  and  may  not  use  thee  well, 

And  thou  hast  gone  amiss. 
Weep  on  thy  Father's  bosom,  he  is  kind — 

Tell  all  thy  mind  ; 
Grief  cankers,  pent — but  spent 

Purgeth,  as  water-runnels  purify 
By  flowing, — and  great  showers  clear  the  sky. 
God  will  not  ask  thee  l  hast  thou  sinned  or  no  1 ' — 

When  thou  hast   kneeled, 
For  if  thou  had'st  no  wound,  thou  would' st  not  go. 

Meaningly  so, 
And  beg  Him,  to  be  healed. 

If  thou  hast  sorrow  for  thy  sinning,  such 

Salveth  its  own  heart-sore; 
Yet  if  thou  pinest,  hopeless,  overmuch, 

Thou  sinnest  more. 


ANTIQUES.  217 

God  loveth  tears,  but  rather  the  good  cheer 

Of  a  good  heart,  if  so 
It  hath  not — for  ill  seeding  of  whilere — 

To  reap  more  present  wo. 

Thou  shalt  not  want  beads  in  thy  rosary 
When  thou  wilt  pray: — better  than  they 

Thy  tears  shall  serve ; 
Good  saints  will  keep  them  for  thy  jewelry, 

Till  Doom-day,  in  reserve. 
Then  all  the  tears  which  thou  did'st  count  for  sin, 

Shall  shine  upon  thy  head 
Like  pearls,  to  grace  thy  coming  in 

Unto  thy  heavenly  kin, 
Weeping  for  joy  of  them  that  were  in  sorrow  shed. 

II. ASKINGS. 

STAR,  that  shone  in  Bethlehem, 
Purer  than  the  purest  gem 
Upon  mortal  diadem, 

Chief  of  all  the  stars  that  are, — 
Shine  into  my  soul,  and  there 
Leave  thy  beauty  heavenly  fair. 

ROBE,  that  veiled  Jesus'  form, 
Come  and  make  my  bosom  warm. 

Shield  it  from  the  outward  storm. 
19* 


213  ANTIQUES. 

VOICE,  that  bade  the  wave  be  still, — 
Laden  with  the  Almighty  will 
That  the  wild  sea  must  fulfil, 

Speak  unto  the  storms  within — 
Swelling  waves  of  shame   and  sin, 
And  a  blessed  silence  win. 

POWER,  that  from  the  grave  could  call 
Swathed  bondmen  of  the  pall, 
Me  uplift  from  Adam's  fall: 

Give  me  life  anew  to  live, — 
Life  that  earth  can  never  give 
With  its  comforts  fugitive. 

VINE,  that  art  of  all  preferred, 
Clustered  with  the  living  word, 
O'er  the  walls  thy  yard  that  gird, 

Droop  with  fruits,  that  I  may  press 
Sweet  wine,  for  my  thirstiness, 
From  thy  purple  wealth's  excess. 

SHEPHERD  of  the  heavenly  fold 
Me  upon  thy  bosom  hold — 
Lamb,  forsaken  in  the  cold. 


ANTIQUES.  219 


MASTER,  of  the  little  Few, 
Let  me  be  thy  servant   too, — 
Servant  without  guile,   and  true. 

VICTOR,  who  didst  conquer  death 
By  thy  living  power  that  saith 
Be.  to  all  that  perisheth, — 

Speak,  that  I  may  rise  again, 
When,  by  evil  passions  slain, 
In  the  grave  my  soul  hath  lain. 

CHRIST,  that  over  all  things  trod, 
Earth  and  Death — and  rose  to  God. 
Let  my  feet  like  thine  be  shod; 

So  to  rise  and  be  at  rest, 

Where  the  true  lean  on  thy  breast. 

And  the  least  of  all  are  blest. 


III. THE     TRULY    BLEST. 

Blest  is  the  man  who  maketh  Truth  his  guide, 
And  even  as  with  a  lamp  doth  walk  thereby, 
Keeping  his  heart  in  blameless  verity, 
Minding,  much  heedful,  that  he  turn  aside 
From  ways  ungodly,  and  self-loving  pride 


220  ANTIQUES. 

And  vain  desire,  which  are  idolatry; 

The  same  is  he  the  Lord  doth  justify, 
And  in  his  bosom  doth  Christ's  love  abide. 
He  shall  not  stumble,  though  his  way  be  set 

In  slippery  places;  He   who  doth  up-stay 

The  raven's  wing  shall  keep  his  feet  alway. 
Nor  earthly  cares  nor  trials  shall  him  fret; 

But  all  sweet  concord  will  his  spirit  sway,-— 
And  love  that  loveth,  whatsoe'er  would  let. 


ELLEN    BYRNE. 

0  GOD  !  we  know  that  thou  art  just 

And  merciful  in  all  thy  ways, 
Yet  Lord,  in  earnest  grief  we  must 

Weep  sadly,  even   while  we  praise ; 
Must  mourn  the  vanished  loveliness 

Which  cheered  us  like  an  Angel's  smile — 
The  seraph-goodness,  sent  to  bless 

Our  spirits,  for  a  little   while, 
Then  backward  unto  Thee  to  turn, 
With  the  pure  soul  of  ELLEN  BYRNE. 

She  came,  as  comes  the  golden  light, — 

A  sunbeam  to  the   freezing  heart; — 
Clothed,  even  here,  in  Heaven's  own  white  j 

Ah  !  why  so  early  to  depart  ? 
She  kept  the  soul  thou  gavest  her, 

Untarnished,  in  this  world  of  sin, 
Her  every  thought  a  worshiper 

Before  the  holy  shrine  within; 
Her  every  deed  an  offering,  given, 
Pure  and  acceptable,  to  Heaven. 


222  ELLEN      BYRNE. 

Mourn !  mourn !  for  what  the  earth  hath  lost, 

Poor  outcasts,  wretched  and  forlorn, 
Sad  spirits,  scarred  and  tempest-tost, 

Mourn !  for  a  loving  soul  hath  gone. 
A  heart  whose  every  pulse  beat  high 

With  pity  for  the  scorned  and  poor, 
Warm  with  unbounded  sympathy, 

Shall  throb  for  you,  oh  never  more  ! 
Weep !  though  your  tears  can  ill  repay 
The  goodness,  which  hath  passed  away. 

Dark  bondman!  doomed  in  chains  to  pine, 

And  bleeding  from  the  oppressor's  rod, 
Mourn,  but  in  hope, — a  friend  of  thine 

Hath  gone,  to  plead  for  thee  with  God. 
When  speeding  to  thy  home  afar, 

The  land  of  refuge  to  the  slave, 
Led  onward  by  the  Northern  Star, 

One  moment  bend  above  her  grave, 
And  wet  with  grateful  tears  the  urn 
Which  holds  the  dust  of  Ellen  Byrne. 

Thy  woes  were  often  on  her  tongue, 
And  many  were  her  prayers  for  thee ; 

And  sorely  was  her  kind  heart  wrung 
For  crushed  and  wronged  Humanity. 


ELLEN     BYRNE.  223 

The  up-gushing  of  a  boundless  love 
In  such  a  great  and  generous  heart, 

0  !  it  is  mighty,  to  remove 
Bondage,  and  burst  its  chains  apart  ; 

And  it  shall  work  its  pure  intent, 

Though  she  hath  gone  to  Him  who  sent. 

FRIENDS  !  in  whose  souls  her  quiet  love 

Was  like  a  holy  Presence,  given, 
God's  witness,  from  the  world  above, 

Of  that,  which  ever  reigns  in  Heaven; 
Weep !  for  in  tears  there  is  a  balm 

For  the  sick  heart's  too  keen  distress, 
Soothing  its  bitterness  to  the  calm 

Of  deep,  yet  quiet  tenderness  ; 
Weep  !  or  the  grief-wrung  heart  will  bleed ; 
For  she  hath  been  a  friend  indeed. 

Mourn  SISTERS  !  ay,  I  know  ye  will, 
•-*     Yet  wrong  her  not  with  your  despair  : 
Though  Ellen's  heart  is  cold  and  still 

In  death,  her  spirit  is  not  there ; 
She  lives!  and,  fondly  may  we  trust, 

Will  visit  oft  the  low,  green  spot, 
Where  ye  shall  bend  above  her  dust;— 

Inspiring,  even  when  heeded  not, 
Your  souls  with  higher  hope  and  bliss, 
And  life,  diviner  far  than  this. 


224  ELLEN      BYRNE. 

MOTHER!  the  deeper  pang  is  given 

To  thee,  for  in  her  life  was  thine ; 
Yet  murmur  not ;  she  bends  from  Heaven, 

White-robed,  and  breathing  songs  divine, 
Heard  only  when  the  soul  in  deep 

Devotion  wrestles  with  its  God, 
What  time  the  star-eyed  Angels  keep 

Their  night-watch  o'er  the  dewy  sod; — 
And  there  thy  sainted  Ellen  waits, 
To  greet  thee  at  the  golden  gates. 

Yet  we  must  tveep,  who  knew  her  worth; 

Yea,  weep  that  such  a  guileless  heart 
Should  mingle  with  the  common  earth, 

Though  "sanctified  in  every  part;" 
That  one  sent  here  to  show  how  much 

Of  goodness  may  be  swathed  in  clay, — 
Even  when  the  world  hath  need  of  such, 

Should  pass  from  us  so  soon  away; 
In  deepest  sorrow  shall  we  mourn 
Above  the  grave  of  Ellen  Byrne. 

But  while  we  cherish,  in  each  breast, 
The  virtues,  which  have  made  her  form 

A  temple  for  the  Holiest 
Reared,  with  an  altar  ever    warm, — 


ELLEN      BYRNE.  225 

With  joy  to  us  shall  Death  unbar 

The  portals  of  the  land  of  Rest, 
Where,  radiant  as  the  morning  star, 

She  bends  adoring  with  the  blest  j 
And  gladly  shall  our  souls  return, 
To  meet  in  Heaven  our  Ellen  Byrne. 

EPITAPH. 

Sorrow  and  joy  above  her  ashes  sway ; 
Her  loving  trust  and  hope,  her  sympathy 
And  her  unstudied  goodness  could  not  die; 

For  this  our  souls  are  glad : 
But  that  decay  should  touch  the  clay 
Which  bound,  within  her  stainless  breast, 
Such  holy  virtues  in  so  sweet  a  nest, 

For  this  what  soul  would  not  be  sad  ? 
For  this  our  eyes  are  tearful  when  we  turn 
From  the  low  grave  which  claims  the  dust  of  ELLEN 
BYRNE. 


20 


TRUST. 

THE  hope  of  a  wise  heart  is  Prophecy ; 

God  tortures  not  the  souls  that  purely  aspire, 
With  a  vain  hunger  and  a  bootless  fire  ; 

Love  lives  to  bless  us,  though  for  love  we  die ; 

Beauty,  to  fill  her  darling's  longing  eye ; 
And  every  good,  for  every  good  desire  : 
Want  is  the  garner  of  our  bounteous  Sire ; 

Hunger,  the  promise  of  its  own  supply. 

We  weep  because  the  joy   we  seek  is  not, 
When  but  for  this  it  is  not, — that  we  weep; 

We  creep  in  dust  to  wail  our  lowly  lot, 

Which  were  not  lowly  if  we  scorned  to  creep; 

That  which  we  dare  we  shall  be,  when  the  will 

Bows  to  prevailing  Hope,  its  Would-be  to  fulfill.    • 

All  suns  are  not  light-bearers,  but  around 
Some  black,  majestic  orb,  its  flaming  peers 
Grind  down  the  darkness  with  their  golden  spheres, 

Their  fire-hearts  yearning,  through  the  dim   profound, 

To  their  strong  brother,  in  his  utmost  bound 
Unwinding  the  still  gloom  of  lampless  years. 
So  yearn  the  bosoms  of  high-hearted  seers, 

Drawn  by  the  grandeur  of  a  vast  unfound; 


TRUST.  227 

They  flash  their  bright  revealings  from  afar, 
Marching  triumphant  through  the  cloven  dark ; 

And  men  know  not  that  some  invisible  star 
Circles  their  flight  unerring  to  the  mark ; 

Nor  yet  know  they  their  overmastering  Power, 

But  that  it  shall  appear  in  its  appointed  hour. 


THE    WREN. 

IN  the  twilight  of  the  morning, 

Ere  the  infant  Day  was  strong, 
To  the  Poet's  little  window 

Came  a  gush  of  joyous  song ; 
Here  or  there  it  seemed  it  was  not, 

For  it  came  from  every  where, 
Thrilling  as  if  it  were  uttered 

By  the  circumambient  air. 

Though  the  Robin  sang  his  matin 

On  the  budding  walnut  tree, 
And  the  many  birds  were  quiring 

All  around  as  glad  as  he, 
In  the  spirit  entered  only 

That  diviner  burst  of  praise, 
As  the  earth,  like  charmed  Memnon, 

Answered  to  the  warming  rays. 

Needs  must  then  the  viewless  spirit 
Of  the  lingering  breeze  rejoice, 

While,  with  more  than  syren  sweetness, 
Sang  that  universal  voice; 


THE    WREN.  229 

Needs  must  he  be  still  and  wonder 

At  the  clear  and  joyous  thrill; 
Uttered  from  the  tongueless  Silence 

Brooding  over  vale  and  hill. 

Looking  from  his  little  window 

Saw  the  Bard  a  tiny  Wren, 
On  the  low  wall  of  the  garden 

Sitting,  where  her  nest  had  been  ; 
Then  he  knew  the  living  fountain 

Of  that  gushing  flood  of  song, 
And  his  spirit  held  him  musing 

On  the  merry  creature  long. 

Marveled  he  that  one  so  humble, 

And  so  little  ken'd  as  she, 
Yet  could  charm  the  ear  of  Morning, 

With  so  great  a  melody; 
While  the  Hawks  and  mighty  Eagles — 

Lords  and  regents  of  the  sky — 
Harsh  and  cruel  and  unlovely, 

Gave  their  terror- sending  cry. 

Marveled  he  that  one  so  gifted 
Loved  the  humbler  paths  of  earth, 

While  the  proud  and  stern  were  claiming 
Nobler  dowers  and  heavenlier  birth; 
20* 


230  THE     WREN. 

But  there  came  a  voice  of  wisdom, 
Heard  within  the  soul  alone, 

;T  was  the  Bard's  attendant  Genius 
Speaking  to  her  chosen  son: 

aPoet;  in  thy  simple  chamber, 

Least  and  humblest  among  men, 
Learn  a  high  and  truthful  lesson 

Of  the  unambitious  Wren. 
Know  that  greatness  is  not  goodness, 

And  the  proud  are  not  the  pure  ] 
That  the  meekness  of  the  gentle, 

Hath  its  boon  of  pleasure  sure  j 

"That  the  lay  which  most  delighteth, 

Is  the  music  of  the  Heart, 
Uttered  movingly  and  earnest, 

Fraught  with  life  in  every  part ; 
That  the  simple  songs  of  Nature, 

Chanted  in  her  tender  strain, 
Stir  the  soul  with  sweet  impulses 

To  re-echo  them  again; 

"And  for  greatness  sigh  no  longer, 
But  with  calm  eye  fixed  above, 

Sing  and  live  thy  glorious  poem 
In  unstudied  TRUTH  and  LOVE!" 


THE     WREN.  231 

Ceased  the  song  and  ceased  the  spirit, 
But  her  words  within  were  sown, 

And  a  high  and  trustful  being, 

From  that  precious  seed  hath  grown. 


A  SYMBOL. 

OVER  the  still  deep  rose  the  morning  sun. 

Like  Ocean's  monarch  from  his  Triton's  cave  j 
A  little  moment,  ere  his  race  begun, 

Two  kindled  orbs  their  mingling  glories  gave: 
And  ever  up  as  the  great  Splendor  run, 

Down,  down  his  image  sunk  into  its  grave: 
Till  now,  far  past  their  mutual  horizon, 

They  speed  to  mingle  in  the  western  wave. 
Even  such  is  Life.     The  sunrise  of  our  birth 

Eeveals  Heaven  wedded  to  the  nether  sphere, 
Still  lower  seeming  sinks  the  life  of  earth, 

As  the  divine  Soul  mounts  in  proud  career, 
Till,  from  the  torn  wave  soaring  to  the  sky, 
The  Earth-life  joins  once  more  its  Immortality. 


THE  HOME-GONE. 

An  why  should  bitter  tears  be  shed 
In  sorrow  o'er  the  mounded  sod, 

When  verily  there  are  no  dead 
Of  all  the  children  of  our  God  ? 

They  who  are  lost  to  outward  sense 

Have  but  flung  off  their  robes  of  clay, 
And,  clothed  in  heavenly  radiance. 

Attend  us  on  our  lowly  way. 
And  oft  their  spirits  breathe  in  ours 

The  hope  and  strength  and  love  of  theirs, 
Which  bloom  as  bloom  the  early  flowers 

In  breath  of  Summer's  viewless  airs. 
And  silent  Aspirations  start 

In  promptings  of  their  purer  thought, 
Which  gently  lead  the  troubled  heart 

To  joys  not  even  Hope  had  sought. 

While  Sorrow's  tears  our  eyes  have  wet, 

Shed  o'er  the  consecrated  dust, 
Too  much  our  darkened  souls  forget 

The  lessons  of  enduring  Trust. 


234  THE      HOME-GONE. 

Not  then  we  heed  the  hallowed  joy 

Their  presence  would  inspire  in  us, 
That  Time  or  Fate  cannot  destroy, 

Or  even  Death  make  only  thus. 
Not  then  we  mark  the  cheering  light 

Of  their  serene  and  love-lit  eyes, 
Which  look  out  from  the  infinite, 

Like  stars  from  yon  unbounded  skies. 

Though  Sorrow  brings  her  hidden  good, 

And  tears  their  dewy  benison, 
Not  always  o'er  the  Spirit  should 

Their  darkness  hide  away  the  sun. 
The  rain  whose  blessed  coming  nurst 

The  sweetest  flower  of  blushing  Spring, 
If  through  its  cloud  no  sunlight  burst, 

Would  blight  her  loveliest  blossoming. 

'Tis  well  the  heart  can  loose  its  tide 

And  gently  pour  the  soothing  tear, 
When  joyful  Hope  is  crucified 

In  death-pangs  of  the  loved  and  dear; 
But  when  from  her  sepulchral  prison 

Her  Angels  roll  the  grief  away, 
Then  yield  we  to  the  new  arisen, 

And  own  her  everlasting  sway. 


THE      HO  ME- GONE.  235 

With  spirit-glance  undimmed  by  tears, 

Look  upward  and  forget  the  clod, 
For,  brighter  than  yon  million  spheres, 

They  wheel  around  the  throne  of  God. 
And  echoes  from  their  choral  song 

Come  quivering  down  the  blue  expanse, 
Like  murmurs  from  the  insect  throng 

That  on  the  beams  of  sunset  dance. 

Let  living  Trust  serenely  pour 
Her  sunlight  on  our  pathway  dim, 

And  Death  can  have  no  terrors  more, 
But  holy  Joy  shall  walk  with  him. 


UNMEANT  SERVICE. 

THE  bees  which  all  day  long  with  tireless  care. 
In  golden  deeps  of  bloomy  cups  and  bells, 
Seek  bread  and  honey  for  their  mystic  cells — 

Tiny  co-workers  with  the  enamored  Air — 

From  flower  to  flower,  with  aid  unweeting,  bear 
Yearnings  which  Buds  blush  into  Blooms  to  tell- 
Their  love's  fruition  guarded  long  and  well 

By  the  great  Mother  in  her  secret  lair; 

So  works  our  human  o'er  its  selfish  will; 
Seeking  the  honey  of  its  own  desire 

It  doth  God  service  faithfully  and  still; 
Around  his  altar  feeds  the  eternal  fire 

From  its  low  passions;  like  the  carrier  Bee 

That  gives  the  flower  he  robs,  an  immortality. 


ICE  CRYSTALS. 

YE  may  have  seen,  when,  on  some  winter  morn, 
The  first  warm  breath  of  home-life,  waked  again, 
Touched  with  a  kiss  the  cold-cheek'd  window  pane, 

Into  what  fine  and  delicate  figures  drawn. 

The  keen  ice  crystals  mock'd  the  viney  lawn  j 
How  the  sharp  shuttles  of  the  invisible  frost 

Wove  their  swift  shapes  of  beauty,  flower  and  tree, 
Till  bough  on  bough,  with  foliage  intercrossed. 

The  bright  mass  grew  to  thick  obscurity. 

So  with  fine  thrillings  of  unuttered  Thought. 

Clear  Beauty  trembles  through  the  Poet's  brain, 
Into  fair  shapes  by  its  own  shrinking  wrought, — 

His  heart-breath  crystalized  with  delicious  pain, 
Soothed  by  some  silent  hope  to  bless  the  earth — 
Till  crowding,  form  on  form,  to  be  borne  forth 

Into  full  utterance,  all  its  life  is  lost ; 

Stark  lies  the  Beauty  in  expression's  frost. 
Frigid,  confounded,  and  of  little  worth. 


21 


THE  WANDERER. 

THE  World  is  wide  to  walk  on  weary  feet. 
With  step  by  step  along  each  lengthening  mile  : 
Never  the  sunbeams  on  a  cottage  smile, 

Where  Love  and  Quiet  build  their  cool  retreat, 

But,  inly  sad,  I  ask  a  home  as  sweet ; 
Then  happy  dreams  a  little  way  beguile, 
Rounding  the  wide  earth  to  a  tiny  isle, 

Where  all  delights  in  a  green  circle  meet.    . 

But  the  broad  world  re-pains  my  lifted  eye  ; 
I  wander  homeless  by  a  thousand  Homes; 

I  tire  of  this  unbounded  liberty; 

JTis  no  right  freedom  that  forever  roams : 

A  Cot,  a  green  Field,  and  sweet  company 

Of  Wife  and  Babes,  were  world  enough  for  me  ! 


PRIMAL  MUSIC. 

LUNA  !  Life  is  very  holy 
To  the  spirit  who  reveres 
God,  in  all  its  smiles  and  tears. 
Triumphs  proud  and  trials  lowly : — 
But  it  is  a  melancholy 
Way,  for  one  whose  heavy  ears 
Are  so  earthly-dull,  he  hears 
No  sweet  melody  o'ertopping 

The  discordant  clang  of  wrong, 
Chiming  like  the  dewy  dropping 
Of  an  angeFs  shower  of  song. 
Listen  silently  and  long, 

Luna,  till  thy  soul  hath  captured 
Notes  of  the  triumphal  song 

By  which  all  the  golden  spheres, 
Wheeling  their  eternal  years, 

Make  the  crystal  heavens  enraptured, 
And  the  blessed  tune  shall  be 
A  well-spring  of  Melody, 
Springing  up  to  joy  in  thee ; 


240  PRIMAL     MUSIC. 

Or  a  chain  of  charmed  sweetness 
Holding,  with  a  prevalent,  awe, 
Thy  whole  nature  to  the  law 
Of  Life-Music,  which  shall  draw 

Deeds  instinct  with  its  completeness 
Out  of  every  thought  and  motion, 
Till  thy  whole  Life  is  Devotion. 

Music,  borne  to  tongue  or  string, 
From  the  daily  pulse  must  leap, 

All  our  common  breath  should  sing, 

And  our  steps  unfaltering 
Time  with  Angel-citherns  keep. 


14  DAY  T    IE 


LUAJN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 


on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

iOOec's'R 

IM   OT  A  /"*  I/T* 

IN  STACKo 

JU-A44    r»   a.  Af\f^ 

NOV  261957. 

*^l  .$$ 

\ 

General  Library 
LD  21A-50m-8,'57                                 University  of  California 
(C8481slO)476B                                                Berkeley 

\C151103 


